Lineage III
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU!Jedi Apprentice. Book III: Master and apprentice face an important rite of passage, grapple with a traitorous plot within the Temple's walls, and discover the limits of obedience and intuition. Appearances by Bant Eerin, Xanatos DuCrion, Yan Dooku, and others.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 1: Seeker**

* * *

An unexpected blast of scouring wind rattled hail pellets against the cave's far wall, and nearly extinguished the guttering sentinel fire. Jedi master Qui Gon Jinn breathed renewed life into the expiring circle of flame, and angled his broad back toward the arched entrance, sheltering the slow-kindling tongues of heat and light from the onslaught of the storm outside.

It was a bad storm – an angry and unseasonable tempest, one suggesting the wrathful disapproval of all Dark things, of cold and emptiness and violence. They laid siege to this cave together, as though they understood what transpired within, what dread conspiracy against their sovereignty was here conceived by the Force. Let them storm and gnash icy teeth together in vain. Qui Gon was participant, privy to the stirrings of Light's rebellion, its unquenchable defiance in the face of defeat, of chaos, of despair. He smiled grimly.

And the storm howled, and his infant fire burned in the protective grace of the master's shadow, and deep in the hidden bowels of the caves, Light called to Light, the sought to the seeker, the eternal to its youngest scion.

* * *

_Know thyself._

The first threshold had been an easy one, for he had stepped from the barren peaks outside into the eerie shelter of the vestibule with Qui Gon by his side. The hollowed dome of the cave roof was fretted with silver light. Naively, he had asked whether these were the crystals of which tradition spoke.

They were not. Those above had been nothing but pretty rocks. So said the Jedi master. What he sought lay deep within.

The second threshold had also been easy to cross. The anterior cave appeared whole, seamless, a womb of encasing ice, perfectly still and sonorous in the Force, a chiming and unwavering note. Told to find his own entrance to the mysteries beyond, he had closed his eyes, denying the testimony of mere flesh. And in the realm of the unseen, he perceived the door straight ahead, the tunnel opening disguised by illusion, by the weaving of visions even here, in the outermost chamber. Mirages and charades sustained by nothing but the Caves themselves, by the dictate of the Force. He had parted ways with his master then, for this was a quest undertaken alone.

The third threshold had been less simple. But he did not come here unprepared, untutored. The narrow gateway to the realm beyond was blocked by a figure in a mantle of white shadow, cowled in blinding light. "Who is it that trespasses upon the caves of seeking?" the voice demanded, whether in speech or thought he could not say.

"No one."

The figure's robes wafted in an invisible breeze, the solar wind off some hidden star. "Have you no name, seeker?"

"_Let a Jedi have no name, no place, no history, no self."_

"You are impudent to quote one wiser than yourself."

"I have no wisdom of my own; I must borrow that which others have left behind."

Laughter blurred the figure's corona to striating color. "You were left a name, as well. Will you not lay claim to it?"

"I will grow into it first."

The speaker's coruscating robes fell from his body, leaving nothing behind. And when he looked down to where the brilliant white garment had fallen, there was nothing but fresh snow, and a trickling cascade of icy dust from the roof above. The doorway stood open before him, and he crossed over it, into the unknown.

* * *

The sun disappeared on the far horizon, and the storm withdrew, slinking back into the dark fastness of night to skulk and plot the terms of its next assault. Qui Gon rose, leaving the fire to tend itself, and stood in the arched portal of the ice cave. A scar across the cloud-smeared sky revealed stars beyond, their clarity startling at this high altitude, as though no soft veils remained between the beholder and their merciless truths.

He recalled a conversation, only a few months ago.

"If it is as difficult and perilous as you describe, master, then why…?"

"Why is it traditional to face the caves at such a young age?" Qui Gon finished, looking down into an earnest, and slightly anxious face. "Because it is far _easier_ for one your age than for one of my years. Think of what you know already, and you will see why."

His Padawan dutifully contemplated the question for a minute. Then, "Because the visions are drawn from what is within us."

"Indeed. The more nightmare we have lived through, the more temptation we have seen, the more evil we have struggled to uproot, the more fodder do we thereby provide for illusion and regret. Your inexperience protects you, in a degree."

"In a degree."

"Yes."

"I have visions anyway. All the time. Do you think…?"

"I don't know, young one." He still didn't. Outside, a looming moon curled silver fingers over the mountainside's snow-flecked clefts, caressed pristine heights, brushed over piled drifts, forests of ice spears. The cold was absolute, and soon the Jedi was driven back within the shelter of the cave, crouched once again over the fire, calling upon the Force to warm the shallow depression in the frozen stone, to preserve the fragile sanctuary of life.

He fanned the flames, and knelt. Waiting.

It had been mere hours – a long time, but not alarmingly long, he remembered. And yet, the nine months of painstaking preparation, of study and meditation antecedent to this task, now seemed insufficient. In the face of stark reality, all theory and speculation faded to inconsequential wraiths, a pallid convocation of platitudes and empty assurances. In the end, there could be no true _preparation. _ There was not a Jedi alive who had not been taken … off guard… by the caves of Ilum.

* * *

_Know thyself._

And what darkness is harbored therein. The next crossing, a narrow cleft in the sheer walls of ice-slicked rock, a dark mouth guarded by rows of gleaming stalactites, blue-white teeth pendant from the shadowed roof, gaped before him, the dim phosphorescence of the cave walls penetrating no further than its threshold.

He stopped, chest constricting. A sigh escaped the narrow mouth, a moaning imprecation, a warning to any who dared trespass. Cold nothingness oozed from the aperture, coiled slowly at his feet, clawed its way up his legs, spine, wrapping cloying fingers of ice about nerve and bone. He shuddered violently. _Focus._ The river stone in his right hand warmed a little, obedient to his will, but not enough to drive back the chill embrace of unseen fingers.

The Dark took on a shape, another figure, this one cowled in shifting void. He could not _see_ its form; but it cast a shadow at the periphery of vision, flickered dark against dark ,suggesting an outline here, a body there. Eyes burned within the smoke, pits of laughing hollow gold. "Whose folly has sent you hither?" the thing demanded.

"My own," he replied, boldly, voice cracking in the frigid air.

"What do you seek herein?"

_Focus. _ The words _saber crystal_ formed on his lips, but he swallowed them down again. Know thyself. "I seek my truth."

The concatenation of shadows, the puppet woven of forgetfulness and doubt, shimmered in a black wind, the eddying grip of some imploded star. It chuckled nastily. "You have not the strength to bear it."

The stone was warm against his skin. His fingers tightened about it, mooring his awareness in the pinprick of heat, the solitary island of vibrancy in this tomb of ice and shadows. "The Force is strength beyond reckoning; wisdom beyond measure."

"You parrot your teachers well, little fool. Come hither and find your truth."

The invitation was more dreadful than a denial; the hiss of the shadow's dissolution more cutting than a blade's sudden slashing strike. He stumbled on nothing as he moved, as though dreaming, toward the door, feeling himself sink deeper into the Force with each step, reality sliding beneath his feet, slick as the shining ice, thawing into a murky slush of vision and memory, and budding premonition. The rock in his fist was hot, a tiny coal burning into his numbed flesh. But he did not let go.

He pressed onward.

* * *

Close to midnight, a predator poked its nose into the cave.

Qui Gon's blade growled a low and reverberating warning; but the hungry young gundark would not be put off. Its gaunt head and jaws thrust through the cave entrance, bones protruding beneath the ice-crusted scales of its hide. Gangly, half-grown, vital _need_ shining in its murderous eyes, the Jedi master could not suppress the pang of empathy writhing in his gut, even as he swept his weapon up in guard position.

The yearling male filled the ice cavern with its hot breath, stood glaring at the tiny fire. A tongue lolled over curved ranks of teeth; paws too large for the monster's body clutched at the gritty ice beneath them. Desperate, starving, likely orphaned yet not quite old enough to fend for itself, the creature had been consigned to the cruelest of fates: slow starvation in the merciless ice-mountains, ultimately ending as the feast of another gundark. Had the hatchling been younger, it would perhaps have been adopted by a female; had it been older, it would have had strength and skill to compete for territory and food with the other bachelor males. But this adolescent specimen was doomed, thrust into the cruel world too soon, without protection or guidance.

It was a pathetic life form, even if it did firmly intend to eat him. Qui Gon wondered momentarily whether it would be more merciful to cut the famished creature down, and so end its suffering; but something deep within him stayed his hand, tugging at buried heartstrings. Tentatively, he reached out through the Force, attempting to touch its bleary, food-starved mind…

But the young gundark was past salvation. It roared, a broken and anger-fraught thunder, and lunged upon him, jaws wide and eyes burning with madness born of the instinct to _kill, _to consume life and thus prolong its own.

The Jedi master's blade struck true and straight, separating head from body. Hot blood spilled upon the ice, but not much. A 'saber's blade cauterized where it touched, and the temperature was very low.

Qui Gon used the Force to push the carcass out the door and over the narrow cliff's edge. A fresh corpse would attract other predators, and a horde of scavenging beasts; he wished for no other intruders tonight. He watched the dark mass of the gundark's body fall, impact upon stone and ice, and settle in a distant ravine, its young life prematurely cut short, by the will of the Force.

He exhaled, slowly, and returned to his vigil.

* * *

The cavern was vast, and locked in labyrinthine shadow and ice. For aeons he wandered the twisting halls of its inner sanctum, until he had wandered to a deathly stalemate in the center of the maze, a knot of wrong turnings and confusion from which his trembling, weary legs would not carry him away. His breath came harsh, and escaped the laboring bellows of his lungs in great clouds of white vapor. His fingers felt nothing, his ears rang with excruciating pain, the cold penetrating inward like a spike driven through his brain.

He knelt upon trampled ice, locked in walls of ice, of mirrored corridors stretching endless, meaningless, unto a vast inviting eternity. The Force drew nigh, expectant.

"What are you _doing,_ young one?" a voice chided him – a tad impatient, almost mocking, but not unkind. Promising wisdom.

He looked up, squinted through the condensing clouds of his own breath. A Jedi, robed in brown. An illusion, of course. But still, it had spoken to him.

"I'm…I'm looking for the way through. I'm lost."

The Jedi sighed, a release of many things: irritation, sorrow, memory. "Yes, you are rather accomplished at that, aren't you?" he said, wryly.

It hurt; and yet, it didn't hurt at all. There was no real venom in the statement. He peered up and up, but he could not see beneath the deep hood. "Can you – how do I get through? I have to get through. I can't fail."

"Well," his new friend – illusion – softly snorted. "In that case, I suggest you get off your pathetic rump and find a way out, before you expire here. Qui Gon is waiting for you, you know."

Qui Gon! How could he have forgotten? The tall man must be cold, and lonely, waiting outside the caverns for him to re-emerge. He could not let his master down. They had worked too hard in preparation for this test… they had staked too much on its completion.

He wobbled to his feet, dizzy. It was cold here, cold as death. His eyes traveled up the shimmering form of his interlocutor. A saber hung by the Jedi's side – a beautiful weapon, elegant and understated, perfectly balanced, traditional yet simple. He looked further, and as he watched, the Jedi's hands came up and gently lowered his cowl.

His heart hammered once, and that gong note shattered the vision like a broken mirror.

Gasping, he staggered backward two paces, back against the constricting walls of the ice maze. But now something new quickened within him, a newborn fire of resolution, the bright ember of a truth revealed. The stone in his left hand flared hot, and he extended his right, fingers splayed, a sign of opposition thrust in the face of the labyrinth.

The Force surged, around him, through him, and the vast architecture of delusion crumbled, dissolving into floating white dust, icy mist. And he stepped forward, pressing onward.

_Know thyself._

* * *

Qui Gon watched the sunrise, as he always did.

Here, solitary witness to the pale star's ascent, he looked out upon the fleeing shadows, the purple and blue dusk retreating beneath the daytime glare. Light pierced the heavy clouds, bled in splendor over virgin snow, filled the air with such a blinding legion of white that the Jedi master veiled his eyes, squinting hard against the influx, the brightness to great to bear. Winged things rose and called to the sun, dipping and soaring before its throne, obeisant to the source of life. The sky burned to a peerless blue, an edged intensity worthy of a saber blade.

And the world was quiet.

He returned to the cave and the fire, a weak echo of the celestial flame without. Dawn had come, and yet he still waited. Ilum's cold day began its song, and yet he still waited. The star rose to its meridian, and anxiety settled leaden, immovable, within his breast. The Force was heavy, and the air weighted with cold, with foreboding. It had been a full cycle of the planet, a full circle about the star. It had been too long – far, far too long. The caves were dangerous, and deadly.

Outside, light reigned in undisputed glory. Inside, it was still Dark.

* * *

By the time he reached the final threshold, he was half-dead of cold. And the stone in his left hand was nothing but endless pain, searing heat. But his nerves were so numb, so deadened, that he had forgotten how to loose his grip. He carried the thing with him, a candle flame without a candle, a tiny spark sheltered in his palm.

The last guardian was transparent, not even there. Nothing but a voice, a smell. Chimes cascading in a warm breeze.

_You are here, latecomer._

"I… I…" His teeth chattered abominably. The rock burned through his flesh, doing no harm. "I come as a seeker."

_And what do you come seeking?_

"The ….I seek the… heart of a … blade." He really mustn't fall down. Even if this presence was nothing but illusion. He would not disgrace the Order, himself, Qui Gon.

_A fair exchange. The price of understanding is innocence.. _

He sucked in a piercing breath. The stone burned, the ice thickened his blood into a sluggish trickle of life, a fading thread of warmth. "I… I… accept the exchange."

_Enter, then, Jedi._

He entered, clutching the burning stone in his left hand.

In the inmost cave, snow fell. And each flake was unique, a subtle variation on every other, like individual lives expressed within the Force's ever changing pattern, the boundless fountain of existence. And the flakes were lives, they were men… men falling like snowflakes, clad in white, softly falling in thousands, hundreds of thousands, until the cave was piled knee deep with their twisted corpses, their white and faceless bodies, this hecatomb of sacrifice, offered to some strange deity.

He stood amidst this white avalanche of death, and his tunics were stained, and his hands were stained, and he too was garbed in white, a sacrifice ready to be laid down on this dark altar of war. He wiped the streaming tears from his cheeks with bloody hands, and smeared crimson across his eyes, too… until the white drifts of hollow men had become scarlet lakes, rivers of fire slithering between jagged black banks, rough cliffs of hewn obsidian. The snow was white ash, then, and leaping fire. And the heat of it burned worse than the ice of the cave, burned so hot that it _was_ ice, the obscene wedding of heat and cold, dark and light, an eruption of chaos that threatened to overwhelm the entire universe.

He cried out over the roar of the magmaic river, cried out to some unknown power, for some unknown mercy. And he tore his horrified gaze upward, toward the roof above –

Only there was no roof, no ceiling but the infinite firmament. And in that bottomless sky there loomed a moon, a bastion of dark, a thing too large and too cold to be a moon, a disgorged eye hanging impossibly in the heavens, blocking out the stars, annihilating the constellations, staring pitiless at him. Its monolithic curve bore down, looming nearer and nearer, until he understood that _this_ was his death, and that this perverse god, this Dark un-Temple in which the million white men had been offered up as incense, this vast idol forged in the rivers of fire, would either consume him, or else consume the ten thousand worlds, crush them in its pitiless maw. And he understood, and he knelt for the death blow, eyes closed, face turned inward toward the Light.

The black moon swallowed him whole, and the snow and fire were extinguished, and the heavens collapsed in ruin, reverting to a glittering cave roof, and the universe fragmented into ice and stunning blue luminescence and chiming, lovely sweet chiming. He was alone in the deepest of the caverns, panting on hands and knees, the sweat slicking his face already freezing to bitter ice-dust. the stone had fallen from his slack fingers. He picked it up - feeling its surface as cold as the ice - and shoved it back in his inner pocket. His head throbbed... it was so heavy... and yet, he found the strength to drag his gaze upward one last time.

Directly ahead, set in the cave wall like the rarest of flowers, gleamed the object of his seeking, the pure crystalline distillation of the cavern's ordeals.

* * *

Brief antarctic day faded again into a despondent night; the storm, patiently biding its time and licking its wounds through the short marches of daylight, now rose again in strength and laid new siege upon the mountains. Hail and swirling snow broke through the cave's defenses and nearly extinguished Qui Gon's beacon flame, sending up a white smoke column to the glistening crystal-fretted roof.

The Jedi master stood, listening to the hollow laughter of the wind, its scathing taunt. He had waited, under the banner of day, for a hero's return. And yet he was still alone. And now the Dark gloated, confident of its victory. The feeble scheme of Light had been crushed in its inception, stamped out before its seedling fire could bloom.

The storm howled the victory of negation, of chill nothingness, its voice a gutted lament echoing among the jagged peaks. Qui Gon listened, and was silent. The stars peered down, without compassion or hatred. Somewhere far distant, a hunting gundark yowled and roared, heralding the death of some other ice-dwelling creature. The moons silvered all in funerary magnificence.

And a footfall stumbled, softly, in the tunnel beyond.

He wheeled, crossed the flickering fire-lit vestibule, stood disbelieving, utterly believing, at the threshold.

His Padawan staggered out of primordial darkness, into the pool of welcoming light, ice crusted on clothing, hair, hanging in delicate crystals from the braid's twisted length. The boy looked up at him, skin a lifeless shade of white, lips a frozen blue-grey, eyes limpid with painful triumph. He extended his shaking right hand and uncurled trembling fingers. Upon his open palm lay a single, cerulean blue crystal, a thing so pure it _sang_ in the Force, chorused joyfully in praise of its _finding._

"Well done," the tall man breathed, a warmth of pride thawing the Force between them, radiant with relief and gladness.

Obi Wan closed his hand around the peerless treasure, offered Qui Gon a melting smile of happiness, and then promptly fainted into the Jedi master's strong and steady arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 2: Maker**

* * *

The fire augmented with a fuel-pellet from the small survival pack, two self-heating thermal blankets and a careful application of Force healing techniques to raise core body temperature eventually restored the ailing Padawan to consciousness. He huddled against Qui Gon – still a bit listlessly – as they watched the nighttime storm rage and vent its frustration outside the cave entrance. Blue icicles hung in a delicate fringe along the lower arch of the natural doorway; moonlit shards littered the ground, liquefied into slick puddles near their circle of flickering light.

"We will climb down to the ship at dawn," Qui Gon quietly determined. They should not stay here longer than necessary; the seeking had taken far too long already, and even Jedi could reach the limits of physical endurance. Ilum's temperature continued to fall steadily, spiking well below zero-range.

Beneath the blankets, Obi Wan clutched the blue crystal against his bare chest. "The planet thinks I've stolen something," he said, slightly glazed eyes focused at a nowhere place just beyond the cavern's entry.

"No," the Jedi master gently corrected. "You've earned it. I am eager to see the weapon you will complete for yourself."

"Yes, master….I've designed it already."

"I know." Qui Gon smiled. He had seen the lovingly crafted hilt pieces and internal components in his apprentice's quarters – the saber had been an eight-month project, the subject of an intense devotion and study, painstaking artisanship. He was aware that certain elements of Obi Wan's 'saber would imitate the lines of his own weapon, an honor both traditional and personal, the significance of which was not lost on him.

"As soon as we arrive at the Temple, master –"

"Patience, Obi Wan."

His Padawan shifted, rebellion warming his blood a little further. "No, master, I'm fasting. Until it's complete."

"Young one, I don't think-"

"It's _traditional, _ master."

The tall man sighed. He, the infamous maverick, was mentor to the Order's youngest reactionary. They made a good pair, from a certain point of view. At other times, their disparate viewpoints made for a near comedic dissonance.

"I thought heeding your master's counsel was also traditional?"

"….What was that again? I'm sorry. The frostbite seems to have affected my hearing."

_Brat. _ Qui Gon chuckled a little, despite his resolve to show no weakness. "Someday, you will make a fine diplomat, Obi Wan. After we correct that small hearing problem of yours."

"Is that a threat?'

"That is a _promise,_ my young friend. A pity it was not your tongue that suffered, rather than your ears… but we must accept the challenges presented to us by the Force. Anything else would not be _traditional_."

Obi Wan did a better job of concealing all emotion. "Of course," he said blandly.

The wind outside died away to a slow and drifting haze of snow, a mesmerizing spectacle. Obi Wan slumped sideways, starting to doze.

"No you don't," the tall Jedi warned. Sleep could be dangerous; the boy was still possibly in mild hypothermic shock. "Stay awake. Talk to me. You haven't told me what you saw in the Caves."

"I… I don't quite remember," the Padawan frowned.

Qui Gon nodded. "That is not surprising. The caves exist to impart knowledge, but not of what the visions portray. Rather of what they _evoke_ in response. I should have asked what you did?"

"I… crossed many thresholds… and I got lost and then found the way out again… and at the end I died. But it was important, master; I remember thinking that it was a fair exchange. I wasn't upset."

"Many think that all the Caves' visions show nothing but the self, under various guises. I am not surprised that you experienced such things."

"Yes, master." Obi Wan was tired, placid with relief and quiet triumph, with half-understood truths and the satiety of accomplishment. He leaned against the tall man's shoulder, dutifully forcing his drooping eyelids open each time sleep threatened.

They sat, in companionable silence, and watched the snow pile in a drift against the entry, a glittering frost wall sealing them within the cave's embrace. Their fire blazed, and the roof dripped with artificial thaw, bedecking the uneven floor with iridescent dew, and the night stretched on to a watery dawn. Qui Gon watched his companion carefully, and kept him alert by raising philosophical conundrums or relating tales of past misadventures.

When the night wind had ceased, and the sun rose over the horizon, wreathed in a bright nimbus of polar fire, they left. And Ilum saved its mysteries for another day and another Seeker.

* * *

The shuttle's therm regulator had been humming away at a murderously high setting; and for once, Qui Gon could not object. He stripped down to his undertunic and stoically endured the onslaught for his Padawans' sake. Only when they finally emerged from hyperspace outside the traffic control zone in Coruscant's gravity well did he nudge the controls down to a more moderate level. "Obi Wan."

The Padawan promptly emerged from the rear compartment, where he had been meditating. He _did_ appear markedly healthier, due to the sauna-like conditions on board the tiny ship.

"Here. Take over piloting. Punishment for roasting your old master to a crisp and overloading this vessel's power supply."

Obi Wan slipped into the pilot's chair and squinted against the blinding sun-glare edging the city-planet's curved horizon. Thousands of black specks floated in orbit, buzzing into loose formation, lines waiting for landing clearance. His shoulders stiffened.

"I _hate_ flying in a traffic jam. What's all this?" he groused.

"I forgot about the Intergalactic Mercantile Union Convention. Space traffic control must be frantic as a shaved Wookie."

The young Jedi sullenly guided their ship into a moving line of small vessels waiting for an approach trajectory to be relayed. He punched their special priority transponder code into the comm unit and leaned back, exhaling slowly. "_Three_ _hour_ expected delay?" he read the response indignantly.

"I'll be meditating," Qui Gon informed him, retreating into the passenger compartment with a small smile gracing his features. On the way in, he lowered the therm-reg a few more degrees.

* * *

They eventually made it back to the Temple's upper docking bay in one piece, having fought and clawed their way through the constricting net of traffic regulations and auto-pilot flight lanes all the way to the free-flight zone surrounding the Temple precinct itself. Obi Wan pulled the shuttle into a somewhat sharp landing with a furious precision worthy of a Makashi swordsmaster. The transport requisitions droid chattered angrily at him as he led the way down the ramp, but the Padawan was too tired, hungry, and preoccupied to spare it a sideways glance.

Qui Gon silenced its rant with one withering stare. It burbled away and took out its frustration on the mech droids instead, ordering them about in a shrill cybertronic staccato.

Tahl was waiting for them.

"Master Uvain." Obi Wan made her a deep and formal bow, cloak elegantly sweeping the decks.

"Gallantry will gain you nothing, Padawan," she warned. "Though I will readily admit you do that very well, and it would work wonders on a lesser being than myself."

Qui Gon raised a brow as she turned her hard-edged golden eyes upward to him instead. "You're two days overdue and out of comm range for most of it," she accused.

He placed a hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "We made a detour. To Ilum," he announced.

Tahl's wrath subsided. She favored Obi Wan with a softer look, one that asked more than words could. The tiniest smile danced at one corner of the young Jedi's mouth and then smoothed into impassivity again.

"I am glad," she murmured softly. Then, "Qui, you need to know. I've been trying to contact you for days. Dooku is bringing Xanatos back to the Temple."

Ilum's caves could not have been colder than his heart at that moment, but Qui Gon was Jedi to the core. He nodded, once. "Thank you for informing me," he said.

* * *

The chamber at the lofty summit of the Jedi Temple's central spire was empty. Reserved for Knighting vigils and other such solemn occasions, it resounded with the Force's majesty.

Obi Wan turned a slow circle, ringed by light-filled windows. Coruscant wheeled slowly on its axis beneath him, the planet's motion vaguely perceptible at this great height. The horizon curved away on all sides, the sun dying on one hand, its glory cast deep about it in successive mantles of red and gold; night crept up on the other, dyeing the heavens indigo, lovely velvet shades. He set down his burden and knelt, feeling the world circle this luminous center, the storm's eye. A thousand generations invisibly buttressed the spire's walls, their outstretched hands like the raised arms of the statues before the promenade at the pyramid's base.

He was a bit dizzy, though he had never before suffered fear of heights. He had been fasting, for…. How long? The lightheadedness was a teetering balance on the edge of an abyss, one filled with _tradition_, with circling spheres of light, a thousand generations' invisible architecture. A tiny sound escaped him, as he grasped at common sense and found only rarefied Light.

But the Force sang powerfully here, clear and pure, and the saber crystal he reverently un-veiled, plucked from its thin wrapping, chimed with clarion beauty.

He closed his eyes for a moment, surrendering to the vertigo, letting his mind fall, helplessly, into the trance that would guide his hands in the making.

And then he set to work.

* * *

Qui Gon left the survival pack, and its depleted contents, with the quartermaster and made a bold line for the Temple communications center. The redoubtable Shiro Kaama and his Padawan Ban Yaro were there, tending to their flocks of circuits and signal amplifiers.

"Qui Gon," the thin Dressalian greeted him, with a bow. His apprentice's shocking red head bobbed in a respectful gesture, thin braid swinging.

"Shiro. I need to speak with Master Dooku. Immediately."

The comm specialists exchanged a veiled glance. "I'm sorry," Padawan Yaro piped up, "But he is not-"

"I have no doubt," Qui Gon interrupted, "That you have neither any idea of his whereabouts, or any capacity to reach him. I need that transmission signal in five minutes."

The gangly teen looked to his teacher, off-balance.

Shiro's creased face rumpled into a toothsome grin. "Do as he says, Ban. We are very sorry we cannot oblige you, Master Jinn."

"I understand," the tall man smiled, as the Padawan hastily fiddled with a relay and coaxed a sputtering holoprojector into life.

A moment later he was face to face with an extremely aggrieved Dooku.

"I was beginning to think you hadn't got my message," the silver haired man growled, disdainfully. "It has been an unconscionably long time, Qui Gon."

"My apologies; I was on Ilum with my Padawan."

One of Dooku's brows rose in an understated arch. "I will require a private audience with Padawan Kenobi, and one with yourself, soon after my arrival at the Temple. Make yourselves available," he commanded.

"We will meet with you at our first possible convenience," Qui Gon responded, politely.

"Hm." The older Jedi folded his long hands behind his back. "It is not I, but DuCrion, with whom you must speak," he said. "I trust I can rely on you to insure your apprentice's… proper comportment… during such an interview?"

"Neither Obi Wan nor I have anything to say to Xanatos."

"Really?" Dooku's cultured voice was tinged with weariness. "Du Crion was once your apprentice, Qui Gon… you made him the man he is today."

It took three long breaths to release all emotion. "That is in the past."

"He may no longer be a member of the Order," Dooku continued, implacable, "But it ill becomes a Jedi to refuse any offer of reconciliation. Did I neglect to teach you compassion, my old Padawan?"

Qui Gon gazed upon the icy blue holoimage, the static-fretted effigy of his own mentor, and bowed stiffly. "I am forever indebted to you in that regard," he said, neutrally.

Dooku's keen eyes raked a Makashi strike across him as the older man regally inclined his head and ended the transmission in a curt snap of blue light.

Qui Gon could feel Ban Yaro's confused young stare on his back as he stalked out of the comm center, dark cloak skirling at his heels.

* * *

The Room of a Thousand Fountains was refuge and sanctuary. Ever attuned to the Living Force, Qui Gon wandered its meandering paths as surely as the sun trod out its celestial course across the ecliptic, every artfully groomed grotto and pooling curve in the riverbed a well-known constellation.

Tonight his star settled majestically in the wide pool on the west side, the one sheltered by vast weeping trees, things centuries old, their roots wreaking havoc on the lower level structures below, their drooping fronds trailing delicate fingers in the smooth surface. A slab of lichen-coated rock peered over the glassy mirror of this pool. Here, at night, when only the glow-lamps were lit, the tiny lake reflected an artificial firmament. The dark pool was a scrying glass, a blank and depthless window in which the Force itself took ephemeral shape, fleeting visionary form.

Stretched full length upon the wide promontory of rock, gazing into the dark stretch of water, Qui Gon saw once again the gundark he had slain on Ilum – its gangly body blackened by fire, its jaws still hot with wrathful life. And another like it – an even younger dragon, this one blue, and crested in a wavering light. The two young beasts clashed together, roaring and tussling on a snow-laden peak. Blood spattered over virgin snow; a roar echoed in the frigid vale, and one of the two fell, sundered, its body plunging deep into a pit, a lake of corrosive poison, one that stripped its flesh and left the skeleton starkly splayed upon the bottom.

The Jedi master started backward, momentarily seeing the gundark's white frame jutting beneath the waters of this serene pool…. But the vision left him quickly, ebbing away and leaving him exhausted, as though his blood had drained out with the premonition.

He lay, stunned. Seldom did the Unifying Force speak to him; almost never was he haunted by its riddles. He did not even hear the clack of a gimer stick approach from the gravel-strewn path beyond.

"Disturbed, the Force is."

He turned, knelt and bowed his head to the tiny master. "You caught me… off balance," he confessed.

Yoda peered into the darkling pool, then waved a claw and sent a small stone careening into its center. Spreading ripples danced upon the surface, and the wave rushed through the Force, smoothing away the prior tension. "Hmmmph." Two long green ears perked upward, listening. "Your Padawan nears the end of his task," the ancient one announced. "Go to him, you should."

He glanced back at the water one more time before he left that place; but only the green and laughing reflection of the weeping trees remained, and the shimmering image of Yoda's tranquil form, crouched at the rock platform's edge, sentinel over the limpid pool's expanse.

Qui Gon laid aside his anxiety, and went to the central spire.

* * *

The chamber was awash in radiance.

"Padawan." In the center of the floor knelt a single figure, familiar and yet not. Obi Wan looked up at him, seeing and not seeing, his eyes passing through Qui Gon and into the effulgence that swelled here, placeless, without origin.

The Jedi master moved to kneel before his apprentice. Here, at the summit of the Order's history, they were spaced apart but a single generation, one breath and the next. Those who had gone before them into the Force gathered, crowding the edges of this boundless tiny room. He looked at the boy with their eyes, and saw as they saw, and reeled with it for a moment.

"Master?"

It was difficult to speak as individuals; he could feel Obi Wan also struggle to form the words on his own behalf, the Unifying Force so strong and pure here that solemn ritual was more natural, more spontaneous than the aberrance of individual doubt and desire. Qui Gon wondered at that, at the crescendo of destiny building in the Force, at the sweet-sad undertone of its weaving harmony. His awareness threatened to unravel into vision again, and he reached out to ground himself in the present moment, in living reality. His fingertips brushed against Obi Wan's knees.

"Begin," he said.

The newly made 'saber lifted into the air between them, Force-borne. Qui Gon grasped it, felt the pulse of the crystal within, the perfect balance of this first masterpiece. His fingers closed round the hilt, and a thousand generations' hands closed about the hilt, spoke the words which issued from his mouth, from nowhere, from the Force.

"….the crystal is the heart of the blade; the Jedi is the crystal of the Force; the Force is the blade of the heart…"

Their minds drifted, flowed with the ceremony, as though the words spoke them and not they the words.

"…this weapon is your life; bear it with purity and honor, in defense of the defenseless; in stewardship of peace; let it burn in the Light or forever be extinguished…"

At other times, there were no words, only the Force.

"…you are born of light, you return to light, your life is bound to the purposes of light: this blade is the mark of your servitude. Bear it in humility…"

And finally, there was silence, the completion of a perfect thought.

"Rise, Padawan."

Qui Gon took the 'saber, the whole tradition, its burden, its privilege, its inexorable path, its bondage and salvation, and fastened it at his Padwan's side, and knew that there would be no stepping back from this moment, from the forging and hammering just wrought upon the boy's soul. He now bore the 'saber, as had a thousand generations past, and Force willing a thousand yet to come. Obi Wan looked up at him, the same knowledge shining clear in blue eyes, settling in their depths with precocious melancholy joy, and there was a deep chiming in the Light around them, a final note of benediction.

It was done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 3: Trickster**

* * *

"Excuse my interruption, Master Jinn. May I please join you and your Padawan?"

Bant Eerin had impeccable manners. The girl's liquid brown eyes blinked slowly, her broad Mon Cal features flushing a deeper, ruddy brown – the last undisciplined vestiges of timidity. Gentle in appearance yet famed as a warrior people, the aquatic Mon Calamarians were fiercely loyal friends, and Initiate Eerin was no exception.

Qui Gon nodded his permission, amending that last statement. A beaded "braid" hung behind the girl's right aural cavity, the hairless species' equivalent of a Learner's plait. _Padawan_ Eerin, then.

"Bant!" Obi Wan exclaimed happily, setting aside his third full helping of breakfast. He too had noticed the braid and was beaming openly in happiness for his childhood friend.

Shyly, the Mon Cal settled in the seat beside him, across from Qui Gon. "I'm so… at peace," she confided in the pair of them. "Master Li has accepted me as his apprentice."

Obi Wan's smiling eyes widened in alarm, a comical transformation that set his teacher to chuckling. "Master Li the _healer?" _the young Jedi almost squeaked.

Bant's enormous eyes narrowed, a slight change in demeanor that lent her sudden ferocity. "_Yes,_ the healer," she snorted. "You make it sound like I've turned to the Dark Side."

Obi Wan cast a helpless glance at Qui Gon, but the older man was in a mood to teach by allowing the student to hang himself on his own rope, and merely leaned back smugly in his chair, grey eyes twinkling in amusement.

Obi Wan scrambled to cover his diplomatic error. "Of course I am pleased for you, Bant," he hastened to assure the younger girl. "You will make a fine healer, and I … I respect your path, truly."

Bant's round eyes softened again, and her webbed hands deftly set about cutting up the seaweed dish she had chosen as repast. "Good," she told him. "I'm to bring a volunteer with me today. We're going to practice some basic soothing techniques, and I need a willing participant in good health."

The bright image of a cornered laboratory rat wafted across the training bond. Qui Gon raised an eyebrow at his apprentice.

"I believe Obi Wan would benefit from some _soothing,"_ the master observed. "And he has earned some time off."

Bant turned and half-embraced the other Padawan before she remembered they were in the presence of a master. She hastily recomposed herself and smiled. "You are a good friend, Obi," she gravely informed him.

"My pleasure," the doomed apprentice muttered, savoring his last bite and glaring at the wall behind Qui Gon's head.

* * *

Tahl's quarters were covered in stacked datapads, holovolumes, and a terminal linked to the Archives computer system.

"Are you applying for a professorship at one of the universities?" Qui Gon inquired, slipping through the door.

She rose to greet him.

"I'm still pursuing the question of behavioral conditioning research. But there are fewer records than there should be."

He settled on her meditation cushion, the only surface not cluttered with the detritus of her studies, and cocked his head to one side. "What do you mean?"

Tahl's thin brows drew together. "I'm not sure yet," she murmured, darkly. "But something's not right. I have a bad feeling about it."

"Now you're sounding like Obi Wan." She _did_ look worn; he noticed fine lines around her eyes, a hollowing in the delicate lines of her face, a weariness etched into her warm presence. He frowned, too.

'Stop fretting," Tahl commanded, impatiently moving behind him to prepare tea. "Have you spoken to Dooku yet?"

"Yes."

She moved back into his line of vision, bearing the steaming bowls in two elegant hands. "Are you going to speak to Xanatos?"

"No."

Tahl sat beside him, nudging him over on the firm cushion. Their arms pressed together beneath layers of cloth. Steam coiled delicately off the tea-bowls, mingled in the faintly incensed air. "You should."

"There is nothing more to say. We last spoke with our sabers."

Tahl drank, her golden eyes closing briefly as she partook of the aromatic liquid. Her profile was exquisite. His hand curled about the smooth porcelain curve of his own cup.

"You teach your Padawan nothing by avoiding the encounter," Tahl added, thrusting deep beneath his lowered guard.

Qui Gon flinched.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, fingers of one hand now resting on his knee.

They sat, motionless, for a long time.

* * *

Ben To Li noticed the new 'saber immediately.

"I see you've come defensively armed this time," he drawled. "Was it something I said?"

Obi Wan bowed, wondering how precisely he had been maneuvered into this unwelcome exercise. Bant was a good friend, and had been for many years, ever since he had been her protector and champion in the crèche. Small, younger than he was, naturally timid – at that age – she had evoked a fierce instinct in him and occupied the functional place of little sister in his heart for many a year. At twelve standard she was far more mature than a human of equivalent age; indeed, he had the unnerving impression that the Mon Cal had outstripped him in many ways, their previous relationship stood now somewhat inverted. He had the sneaking suspicion she thought his well-founded distaste for the healer's ward to be …_cute._

"Wipe that frown off your face," Master Li advised him, curtly. "You'll ruin your good looks and then where will your promising career as a diplomat be, hm?"

Bant had the nerve to giggle at this, and tugged at his arm authoritatively, steering him into a small room set off one of the quieter corridors. "Come _on,_" she urged. " You promised you would cooperate."

Obi Wan sighed, regretting that promise, but aware that he was honor bound to fulfill its terms. "Very well," he grumbled, not bothering to fight his growing vexation. After all, Bant wanted someone to _soothe;_ she may as well face significant obstacles. That _was_ the Jedi way... adversity was a perennially favored pedagogical method.

"What's so funny?" the petite Mon Cal demanded. "You know, it's amazing. I could _feel_ the change in your signature the moment we crossed the threshold to the Halls. You really are worked up about being here, and you aren't even injured or ill."

He raised sardonic eyebrows and crossed his arms. "I am _not_ worked up. I am … focused."

Master Li shut the door with a wave of his hand and relieved the young Jedi of his cloak. "Now," he addressed his own apprentice. "You could not have chosen a more difficult subject. I applaud your ambition, Padawan."

"Thank you, master."

"You recall all that we learned yesterday? I want you to put it into practice as best you can. Indeed, if you are able to place Padawan Kenobi in a light healing trance within the space of one hour, I shall promote you to head healer and leave for the Rims on permanent meditative retreat tomorrow morning."

The two youngsters watched him depart with equally bemused expressions.

Obi Wan hopped onto the narrow exam cot and swung his legs teasingly. "Well, Bant?" he challenged. "Let's see if you are worthy of instant promotion."

She placed webbed hands upon her hips and glowered at him in a manner unlikely to promote gentle relaxation. "I'll _calm you down,"_ she threatened.

He only grinned widely in reply.

* * *

Jocasta Nu was indignant.

"What utter stuff and nonsense," the sprightly archivist sniffed. "The very suggestion is insulting."

Tahl pulled up another mission report on the datascreen. "But, Madame, look at this one: here is a reference to an industrial-scientific research station just inside the Rishi Maze… this team stopped there for refueling… and yet, as you can see, there is no corresponding astrocartographical record filed in the sector."

The archivist leaned over the holoprojection, frowning severely. "A lamentable oversight," she judged. "I shall have one of the assistants cross-reference the files and update the navigational records."

Tahl briefly met Qui Gon's eyes, insistence in their glinting depths. "You'll need my files. I've already hunted down every possible reference to a facility out there, and while there are many to be found in unrelated mission reports spanning the last fifty years, you will find several discrepancies in the Archives records."

Madame Nu pursed her lips. "We do not immortalize _rumor_ in the Archives, Master Uvain," she said severely. "I will not have our integrity compromised by unsubstantiated claims. There is a good reason not every spacer's tale or bit of local wisdom is deemed worthy of inclusion here. This is a reliquary of knowledge, not gossip."

""A refueling stop is not a figment of local imagination," Tahl countered.

"That error shall be duly corrected," the archivist conceded. "And an investigation launched into the possibility of other such oversights. But the rule remains: without an eyewitness account or reliable documentation, _nothing_ is added to these records."

Her bright eyes carved a burning line of disdain across the pair of them, as though they had been the irresponsible originators of a fanciful and _unsubstantiated_ rumor, and she retreated back into the hallowed halls of her domain, long robes brushing the marble floors as she departed.

Qui Gon exhaled slowly.

Tahl's back stiffened. "I'm not convinced," she declared. "And why have the Shadows made no progress on this, when they were told about the existence of Arbor Foundation nine months ago?"

"Who's to say they have not?" Qui Gon asked meaningfully.

"Without reporting to the Council or submitting any sort of Archival report?"

He folded his arms. "It has been done before."

"You would know," she snorted. 'But there's no reason for this to be so classified."

"None that _we_ know of," he amended, quietly. "That does not mean that Dooku is without his reasons."

Neither of them found this a comforting thought.

* * *

Obi Wan sallied into the students' lower level dojo with a light spring in his step. He felt a pang of guilt at having left poor Bant firmly mired in the effects of a heady Force-induced sleep suggestion, but he would find a way to make it up to her later. Her first mistake had been attempting mind influence on _him - _ if he had opted for a mischeivous display of his infamous recalcitrance, for the sake of her education, of course - that was all part of the exercise. Master Li's imagined reaction at finding his new apprentice slumbering peacefully while her erstwhile captive had flown the nest – without a trace, he might add- was too delicious a distraction to permit guilt a very deep grasp on his soul. And besides, if Bant wished to pursue the shadowy path of a healer, she must learn _sometime_ that Obi Wan Kenobi was _not_ and would _never_ be an easy dupe of their smothering and intrusive attentiveness.

A peacekeeper sometimes had to draw a firm line, and hold it… at lightsaber point, if necessary.

"It's Obikenobi!" a deep and laughing voice called out to him as he entered.

"Feld!" he returned the greeting. "I'm sorry," he quickly corrected himself, making a proper bow and adjusting his salutation to reflect the Twi"lek's recently attained rank. "Knight Spruu."

The tall and smiling Twi'Lek strode across the echoing floorboards and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "And what's this…. no training saber, by the Force! You've made your first, yes?"

He unclipped the weapon and held it out for inspection. Understanding the gesture of trust and respect, Feld Spruu inclined his head as he accepted the hilt in his knotted blue hand. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Very impressive. Where did you obtain the crystal?"

"Ilum."

Startled, the Knight's expressive eyes widened and regarded him with something akin to awe. He shook his head. "I told you before, my crazy little friend, you are on the fast track to a Council appointment or expulsion. I just can't decide which." He returned the weapon with a solemn gesture. "I was just on my way out, but I would be honored to stay and, ah, see this new 'saber in action."

Obi Wan fought hard to contain his excitement. Padawans generally did not spar casually with full ranking members of the Order outside their own master or a specific training session; but the idea and the invitation had been of Feld's making, and who was he to refuse? "I would be honored."

Feld's long blue lekku rippled in pleasant anticipation as he led the way to the center of the floor. "The honor is mine." He activated his own green blade and spun it in a showy salute.

It was a joyful combat; Feld Spruu was also a devotee of Ataru. The two duelists flipped, spun, twisted, rolled, and veritably flew through the paces of their contest, vying both to outdo and to entertain one another. The ceiling soon bragged a fair number of scorch marks to match those carved into floor and walls by others' enthusiastic pursuit of perfection; Feld cheerfully matched his ferocious opponent strike for strike, holding back perhaps a little for the sake of fun… but only a little.

"Stars' end!" he shouted over the din of the humming 'sabers, striving in vain to land a hit on his younger adversary. "You are a right pain in the _pu'la,_ my friend!" He reversed grip, summoned a training saber from one of the stands by the doors, and broke into a wild two-handed style, lekku spinning about his grinning face as he bore down mercilessly on the blazing defenses of his foe.

The match ended in a draw, both Jedi landing a killing blow simultaneously. Obi Wan would have taken a thrust straight through the heart, it was true; but he had the satisfaction of knowing that Feld would have completely lost his head at the end of the fight. The sabers snapped off again, their low-power setting leaving no more than a stinging welt.

The young Twi"Lek knight laughed at this outcome. "It is a beautiful weapon," he told Obi Wan, clipping his own saber back by his side. "But made more beautiful by its skillful employ."

They bowed to each other, panting with undisguised enjoyment, and Obi Wan followed the tall, stately Twi"Lek out the doors.

There he was accosted by Master Ben To Li.

"I thought I might find you here, you underhanded gundark's whelp," the healer snorted, his long fingers splayed on either side of his wide belt. "Your practice session with Padawan Eerin seems to have gone quite awry."

Obi Wan offered the older Jedi a guileless smile. "No, master…. I feel quite relaxed now. Thank you for your concern."

The healer's dark eyes glittered with humor, but narrowed into cunning slits nonetheless. "Well, then, I must attribute her inexplicable lapse in concentration to a severe lack of dedication and focus."

"No, master!" ObI Wan hurried to place himself between the healer and the passageway ahead as BenTo turned to take his leave. "Bant is a model of diligence! You can't think that of her – it isn't true!"

"Really?" A black and silver eyebrow rose in sharp dubiety. "I am inclined to be disappointed in her performance today. Perhaps it should be a matter of discipline. I am very disappointed indeed."

There was nothing for it. Obi Wan dropped to one knee before the ruthless old healer. "Master Li," he solemnly declared, willing the man to hear his sincerity. "Padawan Eerins' lapse is entirely my fault. I am to blame; not she. If there is to be discipline, it should fall to my part alone."

Ben To Li's mouth twitched, and he drew a hand slowly over his long beard and thin moustaches. "Is that so?" he said at last, eyes twinkling more than ever.

"Yes, master. I accept all the consequences. They are mine to bear. Please do not allow this to reflect on your opinion of Bant."

The healer's expression softened. Likely enough he could sense the near-desperation of his supplicant; as a healer, he was highly attuned to the emotions and unspoken needs of his fellow Jedi. "Very well," he agreed. " I see my Padawan has an honorable, if foolish friend in you. I will communicate with you about this matter later. In the meantime, your first effort at making amends will be to go directly to Master Jinn and tell him exactly what happened. I am _sure_ he will find the tale of your exploits as highly amusing as you do."

Obi Wan rose to his feet with a bit less alacrity than usual.

"What's the matter, Padawan? You look a bit peaked. Do you require medical assistance?"

He shot Master Li a pained glance. "No, master, thank you." He hoped his bow would serve to conceal the flush of mortification already creeping into his face.

"Hm," the healer snorted. "You see, one does not need to carry a 'saber in order to disarm one's opponent."

"Yes, master," he meekly agreed. Obi Wan squirmed in place a little as the healer rounded on his heel and swept away down the concourse amusement trailing in his wake like a frolicsome pet. After a few deep calming breaths, he steeled himself and went to find his own teacher, a very concrete and not particularly elusive bad feeling blooming deep in his gut.

Qui Gon Jinn was going to _kill_ him.

* * *

"You what?"

Obi Wan dragged his gaze off the floor and managed to make eye contact once again, the familiar line between his brows creasing softly into a deep valley. "I… do you wish me to repeat the story, master?" he asked.

Qui Gon passed a hand over his face. "No," he decided.

"Yes, master."

Silence. The Padawan fidgeted. Not physically, of course – he had long outgrown such habits. But the tall man could feel his nervous discomfort in the Force, through their bond. Qui Gon sent another wave of disapproval crashing over the shore of their mutual understanding and noted the infinitesmal wince it evoked.

He sighed. Two steps forward, one step back. His apprentice seemed bent on accomplishing _every _ milestone event with panache, including apparently even the inevitable retrograde motion in his growth to full maturity. "Very well," he said, after pondering it. "You will return to quarters and stay there, meditating on your folly, until further notice."

A moment's unhappy absorption of this edict. "Yes, master." Then, tentatively, "And we will discuss it later?"

The tall man's eyebrows lifted. "Is there a need for me to explain the inappropriate nature of _any _ part of your action?"

"No, master." Obi Wan was writhing inwardly.

Qui Gon gazed placidly down at the wide hall below them, leaning on the concourse railing. "Then no, we will _not_ discuss it later. Off you go."

"Yes, master." But there was no sign of the Padawan leaving. Their bond was a welter of half-formulated apologies.

"Obi Wan." It took a colossal effort to remain stern, but he succeeded.

"Yes, master."

When the soft patter of footfalls and the sense of acute misery had receded safely into the distance, Qui Gon finally relaxed his grip on the railing and allowed the faintest chuckle of amusement to escape him.

_Brat. _ He was still smiling when he turned and strode away in the opposite direction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 4: Witness**

* * *

Jocasta Nu stood roughly eye to eye with her new assistant, but the look she bestowed upon him – one suggesting that he was as suspicious as an unsubstantiated rumor seeking inclusion in the Archives – would have been sufficient to make any other being melt slowly into the marble floor.

"Why abuse of power should be a fitting reason to consign you to _my_ supervision, is a mystery beyond my grasp," Madame Nu remarked sourly. "I am no specialist in delinquents, Padawan Kenobi."

Obi Wan decided he would have preferred five thousand laps round the Temple perimeter, or even interminable duty in the refectory kitchens, to this particular punishment. Which was undoubtedly why the combined genius of BenTo Li and Qui Gon Jinn had eventually determined that Madame Nu would be the perfect person to drill some self control into him. He sighed. At least he had not been sent back to the healers to serve out the period of his penitence as a _laboratory rat. _ But then, the Code did forbid explicit torture of Padawans.

He sighed. "Yes, Madame Nu. I am not a specialist in delinquency, either. I should much prefer to be here studying than inconveniencing you."

She favored him with a piercing look, but some of the hard lines radiating around her eyes smoothed into faint wrinkles, and she unclasped her hands. "Very well. Since we have reached a satisfactory understanding, you may begin making yourself useful. And you may start doing _that," _ she added, leading the way to a data accessioning terminal in the Archivists' back offices, "By updating some discrepancies in our records. Here you will note are mission reports and other files that make oblique reference to locations in a particular sector of the rims. There seem to have been minor oversights in cross-referencing these items to the astrocartographical compilation."

He nodded, sighing inwardly again at the proposed task of learning to properly use the Archives' computers complex programming. He was competent, certainly. But circuits and cybernetic pathways were not his passion. The fingers of his left hand strayed longingly over the saber's hilt, hanging upon his belt, just where it had always belonged.

Of course the subtle gesture did not escape Madame Nu's keen eyes. "I'm afraid," she observed pertly, "That between your duties here and your regular studies, you won't have much time for saber practice this week."

He was trying hard _not _to think about this fact. With an effort, he released his surge of resentment into the Force. A Jedi was resourceful; he would find a way. In the meantime, "Yes, master," was a safely noncommittal response.

* * *

"Best three of five," Mace Windu magnanimously offered, after two consecutive victories.

Qui Gon bowed his acceptance of the new terms. It was good to spar with his old friend, without need of _teaching, _ without need of restraint. They saluted once again and fell to, blazing a furious dance across the senior dojo, blades clashing like storm fronts over high mountains. Green fire slammed against violet lightning, two vast strengths exploding into unparalleled noise and thunder. The sabers shrieked, screamed and howled their joy as the two tall, broad-shouldered masters let loose upon one another, peerless skill matched against peerless skill, light against light.

Mace flashed his startling smile. "You're growing old, my friend," he taunted his opponent. "Soon enough your Padawan will be able to beat you without trying."

"I shall retire and teach the crechelings, then," Qui Gon replied, narrowly missing a decapitating blow. "Or if that proves too taxing, I shall spend my senility studying Vapaad."

Mace's growl rumbled low, counterpoint to his violet blade's humming. An insult to his saber form was an insult to the man himself. "You won't _make_ it to old age, Jinn," he threatened, switching immediately into his signature style, a personal variant on Form VII. Light exploded into the blinding emptiness of Vapaad– the dark burned into an eye that stares too long at the scintillating sun.

Qui Gon floundered, ringed round with such power; he parried, spun, felt his defensive guard compressed into a tight circle, a noose of constricting light. He fought hard, calling upon the Living Force, letting its boundless, wild-spreading river tumble over the banks of his awareness, flooding full through his blood. Life swelled, tremendous, untrammeled, against Vapaad's impossible welding of shadow into Light…

But Mace still won the contest. Qui Gon's saber hilt skittered across the polished floor, his left knee twisted beneath him as the last blow caught him off balance, and he ended with the purple blade thrumming sonorously a centimeter from his throat.

He raised a hand . "I yield. And do not say, best four out of seven."

Mace's weapon snapped sharply as he deactivated it and extended a broad, richly-hued hand to haul his friend to his feet. "I would never abuse the elderly in such a fashion."

"Yes you would, were you not needed in the Council chambers."

They chuckled together, the years dropping away, like the perspiration running freely down their bare chests.

But the moment quickly passed. The Korun Jedi straightened, playfulness evaporating into his customary somber regard. "Yan arrives tonight. I will meet personally with DuCrion when they land; if his intent to seek reconciliation seems genuine, I will call a formal meeting in the morning. Both you and your Padawan will be required to attend."

Qui Gon's joy fled, as dew before a scouring sun. "I see no purpose to be served by subjecting my Padawan to such an encounter."

Mace's face briefly registered empathy, but the calm mask fell into place almost without hesitation. "You should let the Force be judge of that, or at least the wisdom of the Council." His eyes twinkled, a glitter of humor moving in dark depths.

Qui Gon snorted. "I take it our attendance had been officially mandated by the Coucnil?"

"I would prefer," Mace rumbled, "That you participated willingly. But I'll take grudging obedience from you anytime I can get it."

They paused outside the changing rooms. "And if I refuse?'

Mace went for the throat, again. "Then I will directly command your Padawan to attend, contrary to your orders. Why don't you make it easy on the boy and set a good example?"

A muscle in Qui Gon's jaw leapt, as he realized his second defeat at the hands of Vapaad. Neither Mace, nor it would seem the Force itself, was in a mood to play fair. He bowed his acquiescence to the summons, and they parted ways.

* * *

Obi Wan soon realized that his vocation lay in other realms than the musty halls of the Archivists. Knowledge he loved; order he loved – some would say with an immoderate passion – but forms and beaurocracy and record-keeping….

He sighed for the hundredth time and shut down the data terminal at last, his tedious task complete. He had, of course, missed the midday meal and this was a secondary source of irritation. Nor had it escaped his notice that all of the purported "oversights" in the astrocartography files had been made in one particular sector, a wide swath of space lying just rimward of the Rishi Maze, a segment of unincorporated and sparsely populated asteroid belts and proto-planets, for the most part, but still…

Suspicious. Especially since the errors stretched over a ten to fifteen year period. It was as though the Archives computer system had developed a blind spot to that particular district. Doubtless a cybernetics expert, such as Master Kaama, would be able to remedy the glitch. He stretched, muscles aching and stomach growling in a most unbecoming manner. He could, he _should, _ leave now and plunge into his other assigned studies, cram some dinner down and then return to the same. He was expected to meditate with Qui Gon at tenth hour; and if he did not rise early the next morning, he would never complete his manifold duties on time tomorrow. There would be no _sparring_ whatsoever. No exercise of any kind.

"Blast it." He etched a small circle on the polished desktop with one finger, glaring at the reflective surface. A small voice of conscience issued its own sanctimonious pronouncement. _You should not have tricked Bant. _ He banished its unhelpful and obvious pronouncement to the back of his mind and stood, reluctantly resolving to move on to the pile of Astro-Navigation and Galactic Civics Theory assignments waiting his eager attention.

It was a sincere resolution; but the Force had other things in mind. He had just emerged into the main stacks, and was on the point of crossing the wide central aisle between the soaring shelves, when a familiar presence fluttered across his awareness. Instinctively he shrank back into the shelter of the nearest rank of shelves, hand clasping at his saber's hilt, a cold chill passing down his spine.

Childish. But he tightened his mental shields to breaking point and disappeared within the plenum, every sense widening into painful receptiveness. His breath came slow and deep, his heart matching its cautious pacing.

Master Syfo Dyas strode purposefully down the wide central aisle and waved a hand at the lock mechanism for the holocron vault at the Archives' far end.

The Force nudged him, and he acted: a holovolume nearby flew from its sedentary roosting place and clattered to the marble floor at the Jedi master's feet, just as his cloak swept over the now-open threshold to the vault beyond. Obi Wan followed the fallen book, a wall of determination and the Force holding the vault doors open, against the pressure valves' will.

"Master Dyas?"

The Sentinel turned in place, surprise suffusing his angled features with an unwonted openness.

"I'm sorry to disturb you…. ' He held the holobook up, expectant, eyes raking over the interior of the dimly lit chamber beyond, the rows of glowing cubicles, the low ceiling, looking for he knew not what. "It seems as though you might have dropped this?"

Jedi did not _drop_ anything. Master Dyas' slanting brows formed a dismissive peak. "No, Padawan, I did not. Thank you. You may replace it."

Obi Wan bowed, the Force urging him to thrust his way into that forbidden place, to _see_ what lay beyond, to _act, now…_ but he was defeated, and when he unbent, the panels curved shut, petal-like, before him.

He steadied his breathing, the vertigo induced by the _command_ of the Force, unfulfilled, even now ringing in his ears, hammering with his pulse.

"Are you well?" a voice asked at his elbow.

He turned. "Bruck." His former rival, reduced to mere Temple staff, apparently now assigned to the Archives as a clerical assistant. He inclined his head politely, knowing what conduct both honor and Qui Gon demanded of him.

"Only Council members and a few others are permitted in that vault," Bruck Chun reminded him, sharply. "You should not have attempted to sneak in."

Obi Wan forced his hand to loosen about the saber's hilt. He held out the holobook. "Of course," he replied, smoothly. "Would you be so kind to replace this volume, as Master Dyas requested?"

Bruck squinted at him hard, pale watery blue eyes raking over him head to foot, as though performing a radiation scan or a bio-check. "Of course," the white haired youth mimicked him. "And I shall be so kind as to ask Madame Nu about the restrictions, as well. For the sake of clarity."

"Thank you," Obi Wan answered, lightly, indifferently. "I would appreciate that."

"My pleasure," Bruck responded coolly.

"May the Force be with you." Obi Wan extended his bow into a slow and graceful irony.

Bruck Chun mirrored the gesture – though not so elegantly – and took his leave.

* * *

"You are preoccupied, Padawan."

Obi Wan had eaten only half his dinner. "I'm sorry, master. I've been... _sitting_ for twelve hours straight. Do you suppose we might -"

"No, I'm afraid not. We will attend Master Yaddle's lecture on Meditative Stillness this evening, and I expect you in quarters at tenth hour. Sparring is out of the question."

The plate was shoved aside, with the faintest hint of petulance. 'Yes, master."

"I hope you were productive in the Archives today?"

"I hope so too... do you think that if I excel, Madame Nu might be persusaded to-"

"Obi Wan." The tall man waited to be sure he had the boy's attention. "You cannot _negotiate_ your way out of every difficulty. And Madame Nu will not be issuing any early paroles for good behavior. Master Li and I made certain of that when we spoke to her."

The Padawan's shoulders rose in a dissatisfied shrug and stayed that way, hunched tight with undissipated energy.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You mean that you are resentful."

The young Jedi blushed, mouth hardening into a quite obviously resentful line.

"Perhaps you should seek out Padawan Eerin; she might be able to _soothe_ your frayed nerves."

Obi Wan offered him a look of wounded sarcasm. "_Yes, _master."

Qui Gon pointed sternly at the half-emptied plate, and his apprentice dutifully if grumpily set to work on its cooling contents.

The tall man sighed. If only this were the extent of the difficulties they faced. Tomorrow would bring its own travails.

* * *

Qui Gon felt the shuddering imbalance in the Force before he heard the gentle knocking at his bedroom's door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Obi Wan mumbled, filling the doorframe, a pale ghost outlined in faint moonlight, fair skin and white sleep pants etched with a sickly glow from the window beyond.

He crossed the room in two strides. The Padawan's shoulder was slick with sweat where he touched it. "A vision?"

"I'm very sorry, master. But you said-"

"I did. You did rightly to wake me." There had been few such premonitory dreams, of late. But they had just returned from Ilum. And the Force _was_ disturbed, fretful. "I feel it too."

"I saw a death. One yet to come."

Qui Gon nodded. "That is nothing to fear. Death claims us all, eventually."

His Padawan looked away, kneaded absently at a taut muscle in his chest. "This was in the Temple. The river in the arboretum runs with blood. And there was a… a _gundark_."

Qui Gon's heart skipped, then steadied. "Dreams pass in time," he reminded the boy. "And this one is too vague to be interpreted."

"Yes, master… should I meditate upon it?"

"No," the Jedi master decided. They would not be imbalanced by the future. Or the past, for that matter. "You should get some rest." A most unpleasant day lay ahead, though he had not yet told his Padawan this news.

Obi Wan quirked a curious brow at him when he followed the boy into the adjacent bedroom. "I don't require _tucking in,"_ he complained.

"Lie down."

His apprentice sprawled across his sleep mattress, eyes gleaming humorously in the dim lit room. "And a lullaby won't have any effect, either. Bant can assure you of that."

Qui Gon perched on the edge of the thin mattress, fingered the Padawan's braid, the tiny scarlet thread wrapped at its end – a marker signifying Obi Wan's first disastrous encounter with Xanatos DuCrion.. "I would not be so foolish as to attempt any of the healers' _soothing techniques,"_ he smiled, his heart aching.

"You are wise, my master," Obi Wan smiled back, smug as an overfed felix.

"Yes, I know." _Relax._ A yawn textured the silence. _Peace._ Mental shields unraveled, loosened into compliance. _Sleep._ The young Jedi's eyes slid closed as he obeyed.

Qui Gon lingered a few more minutes before taking his weary leave, wishing perhaps that the present moment did not always have to be so very fleeting.

* * *

They ate breakfast in their quarters the next morning.

"Are we leaving on a mission?" Obi Wan queried, uneasily.

The time had come. Qui Gon straightened his spine, set the tea cup down. "The Council has asked us, each individually, to attend an interview with a visitor to the Temple."

The Padawan waited for further elaboration. A line appeared between his brows. "You and I… specifically? Is it somebody with whom we are acquainted, master?"

The tall Jedi's mouth thinned. "Yes."

Another awkward silence. Qui Gon's hand crept unconsciously to his side, rested against his saber's hilt. His apprentice mirrored the gesture, eyes never leaving Qui Gon's face.

_You teach your Padawan nothing by avoiding the encounter._

"We are going to speak with Xanatos DuCrion," he said, simply.

The remainder of the meal passed in unnatural, strained silence.

* * *

They ran into Bant Eerin on their way through the fifth-level central court, the one watched over by a statue of master Chakora Seva levitating a sphere.

"Obi Wan!" the diminutive Mon Cal accosted her friend.

Qui Gon slowed his pace and waited. He was not anxious to arrive at their destination anyway.

"Bant."

The wide-eyed Mon Cal Padawan all but thrust a webbed finger in Obi Wans' face, her vestigial gills flaring. "That was a dirty trick. Master Li has set me to cleaning the Halls after hours as an incentive to be more mindful." Her enormous eyes blinked once, sadly. "That wasn't worthy of you."

Qui Gon felt his apprentice's pang of remorse as a twisting deep in his own gut. He released it into the Force.

"Bant… I'm sorry. It was thoughtless. I … I'll speak to Master Li Again. I'll help you do the cleaning. Perhaps he will let me do it _for _ you. I never intended harm to you. It won't ever happen again. I promise."

In the face of such abject apology, Bant's mien softened. She glanced sideways at Qui Gon, and morphed the incipient embrace into a mere formal bow. "I believe you." Her globular eyes shone with restrained tears, and she hurried away on her mysterious healers' business.

Obi Wan heaved in a deep breath, watching her retreat.

"Come," Qui Gon said, leading the way onward. "You are going to be a very busy man this next week, my young friend."

"Yes, master."

They walked onward, heading for the assigned meeting place. As they progressed, Qui Gon felt his companion's mood descend further into dark valleys, and slid inexorably down the same slopes himself. The Force thickened, surged between them, around them. When they reached the arched threshold to the west wing corridor, where morning light shafted through tall windows, casting translucent golden barriers across the hall, Obi Wan finally balked.

"_Must_ we do this, master?"

Qui Gon merely increased his stride, eating up the stretch of corridor at an alarming speed, pressing through the weightless walls of light. His Padawan was forced to into a half-jog alongside him. "Yes, Obi Wan, we must. By decree of the Council."

They stopped at the lift doors. The Padawan shifted impatiently, fingers drumming against his saber's pommel. "That has never posed an obstacle _before_, master."

Qui Gon was in no mood for impertinence. "Padawan."

The doors opened, and they stormed inside, a thundercloud and its shadow. "I don't see _why_ the Council would insist on such a thing," the boy muttered, his foul mood mirroring Qui Gon's and sending its own echo across their bond, until they were trapped in an endless corridor of reflected ire.

The Jedi master's voice roiled with contained emotion. "Then perhaps I have spoiled you; we shall in future practice obedience without the need for taxing justification first."

Obi Wan, however, was far past intimidation. "_You_ said he who obeys without thinking is a traitor to the Living Force."

The lift had halted, but Qui Gon held the doors closed with one upraised hand. He looked down into a pair of blue eyes sparking with the same irate resentment he struggled to quash in his own breast. Exhale. "So I did. What do you so badly need to know?" he demanded, blocking his apprentice's exit.

His Padawan's chin came up. "_Why_ are you making me do this?"

The Force sizzled, blinding actinic light at the periphery of vision, a twisting _plea_ across their bond. Qui Gon looked at his student, arms crossed in perfect imitation of his own habitual stubborn posture, and his belly clenched. _Force help me._ "The Council is commanding you to do this. As it is me. And we shall obey."

The automated safety system blinked into life. "_Lift occupants: do you require assistance? Is there a technical difficulty?_" the flat droid voice spoke over the comm.

"We do not require assistance and all systems are functional. Thank you," Qui Gon informed it placidly. He returned his burning gaze to Obi Wan. "Is that not correct, young one?"

The learner's braid swung as the young Padawan jerked his head sideways, scowling furiously. Qui Gon waited, towering above his fierce apprentice.

"_Yes, master,"_ Obi Wan growled, a slight break in his voice the only indication that his wrath was mere façade.

Qui Gon released the doors and led the way out, his protégé stalking at his heels. They had an important appointment to keep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 5: Prodigal**

* * *

"Stop that infernal pacing and come sit here by me," Tahl commanded.

Obi Wan craned his head over one shoulder, stopping mid-stride. He sighed and executed a reluctant about face, settling beside the Jedi master with a frown plastered on his face.

"Master is _not_ pleased," he explained, absently rubbing at one temple.

Tahl's shapely mouth straightened. "Yes, and you do nothing to help by _fretting._ The pair of you – by my oath!"

He interlaced his fingers to stop their nervous peregrination along his braid's length, about his cloak hems, over the saber's reassuring hilt. Tahl reached sideways and clasped his knee.

"Peace, Padawan."

Obi Wan sat, and sought for elusive peace. But how could he find it when … he gripped his head between his hands. " I should be there. I should –"

"No. And this is why. Center yourself, and prepare. Qui Gon would want you to face this with calm and serenity."

Which was manifestly _not_ how the Jedi master himself was approaching the confrontation. "I'm trying."

"There is no try."

He gritted his teeth against the _raw pain_ leaking over his bond with Qui Gon, against the disturbance in the Force that set his teeth on edge and twisted his belly into hard knots. Why couldn't he be present, too? Why must he wait his turn out here, forced to endure the trial vicariously before he was put to the test in person? Why must he do this _at all?_ His master was _distressed – unsettled – _

Tahl's fingers were digging into the bones of his knee. "Obi Wan…?"

He exhaled, harshly: the familiar order of the universe, the predictable courses of the ten thousand worlds, the grounding and center of things _shifting_, a seismic rolling beneath his existential certainties. For a moment the Force was a hostile sea, a measureless vastness on which he drifted without a compass; a wheeling firmament in which there was no clear pole-star; a chaotic roaring of noise without guiding melody. His skin broke out in a cold sweat, panic clawing for admittance. _No, no, no…. focus._

Tahl had moved to crouch before him. "Padawan. Listen to me. Breathe."

He grounded himself in the concrete: Tahl Uvain, her gold-flecked eyes, the drape of the ubiquitous Jedi cloak against the patterned tile, the warmth of the sunlight washing over that pattern, the flitter of air traffic beyond the transparisteel. His heartbeat, rapid and strong, the prickle of damp on his nape, the Force. Present, tranquil beneath the dizzying waves. With a terrible feeling of abandonment, of guilt, he sank deeper, where Qui Gon's presence was indistinguishable from the universal current, the soundless tone beneath all existence. And yet he was still without anchor.

He barely noticed when the tall Jedi finally emerged into the foyer again.

"Padawan?"

But when they were both adrift, storm-tossed wanderers, who was teacher and who student? He stood, looked upon Qui Gon's drawn features, his pain-filled eyes, and looked away again, deeply uncertain.

"They are waiting for you. I will stay here."

He almost shrugged off the hand that settled lightly on his shoulder – too lightly, bereft of its customary strength, of its firm and decisive steadiness. An unbidden anger rose up to steady his reeling mind; the _thing_ lurking behind those doors had done this, had cracked the foundation of his world, uprooted his firm mooring, stained the wellsprings of his confidence.

And with anger came clarity; he looked on Qui Gon and saw the vulnerability of flesh, of that which the Force was _not, _ of gross matter and fickle emotion. And with clarity came a rush of shocking, unexpected ferocity, the protectiveness of the kit for its wounded parent. He threw the doors open with a wave of his hand and swept into the chamber beyond, light dazzling his vision, visceral _attachment_ darkening the vital hollows of his heart and lungs.

* * *

The chamber was quiet, and filled with soft radiance. The reconciliation council was a smaller part of the High Council; here, seated on meditation cushions in a small circle, were Depa Billaba, Yaddle, Ki Adi Mundi, Yarael Poof. Their presence was soothing; he bowed to them deeply, his imminent rage quieting into a simmering tension.

And then he made the mistake of looking up. Directly across the too-small space, crouched like a vile gargoyle upon another cushion, sat Xanatos DuCrion, ebony hair tied back from a gaunt face, a skeleton covered in sallow flesh, a mask of calm harboring two burning coals where eyes ought to be, a Light swathed in a nimbus of shadow, a thing like the illustrations of _darksabers_ he had seen in the Archives. He swallowed, tasting iron and bile.

Du Crion smiled at him, the muscles along his mouth pulling the corners upward. That was all. Obi Wan's hand was on his saber hilt, the crystal within chiming a deep note of readiness.

"Padawan Kennobi." Ki Adi Mundi had been saying his name, perhaps more than twice. He started, wrenched his appalled gaze away. "Sit, please."

He sat, folding his legs beneath him as he sank down on the remaining cushioned seat. Qui Gon had been there; he could feel the master's presence lingering, a subtle aroma of high forests, sweet-sharp sap and rain drenched soil. The Force smoothed, like a billowing sail held taut and still by the combined effort of the four other Jedi here in this small chamber. He relaxed, feeling his mood smoothed along with it, aware that this was partially a _suggestion_, but not quite resenting the fact. DuCrion watched him, his presence an utter blank, just as the Sentinels' so often were. It made his hollowed face seem a mask, a puppeteer's façade.

"I owe you an apology, Padawan," Xanatos spoke. His hands were folded loosely in his lap. "I have done you wrong in the past, and I wish to lay that to rest."

Obi Wan remembered. He pushed the momory away, into the Force, still smooth and placid, weighted with the others' centering influence. It dissipated. "The past no longer exists," he stated flatly. Visions of corpses falling, sinking to the flagstones of a prison, blaster holes smouldering through skulls and chests, rose and danced before his imagination. He released it, shuddering. "You owe me nothing." He did not want even the man's apology. He wanted _out._

"Then you forgive me?"

Qui Gon was still _pained_ by this despicable traitor. "I bear no grudge. The Code forbids it." Traitor. Disgrace to every Padawan, to every student of the Force. Traitor to _Qui Gon._

Du Crion raised an eyebrow, his eyes weary with fathomless burdens. "You aren't fooling anyone here."

He was on his feet in the next instant, and the Force whipped free of the masters' restraining hold. An ethereal wind rose, colder than the storms raging round Ilum's peak. "I do not intend any deception, Xantos DuCrion. You betrayed my master and you murdered innocents before my eyes. You are a servant of the Dark and I will not pretend to embrace you as my brother."

"Control yourself, you will," Yaddle's gravelly voice snapped.

"Padawan!" Master Billaba exclaimed, in dismay.

"We shall resume this conversation at a later time," Master Poof declared, solemnly.

No, they would not. He had spoken all that he had to say. He could feel the common expectation that he apologize for his outburst, but he stood firm. Traitor. To the Order. To Light. To Qui Gon. His pulse was a thundering roar, a perpetual waterfall of outrage tumbling into a ravine carved by respect, and discipline, and love.

Ki Adi Mundi leaned forward. The Cerean's eyes were pale, perceptive. "You are dismissed for now," he said.

Obi Wan bowed, shaking. Du Crion watched him, tired eyes empty of all passion, of all loyalty. Traitor!

"Go," Yaddle commanded, one clawed finger raised at him, green ears pointing downward, displeased.

He went, riding the crest of his indignation like a hot wind, blasting into the antechamber where Tahl and Qui Gon still waited upon him, their faces soft with reflected pain. He looked, and recoiled from that double-edged mirror, perceiving his own imbalance, his own ruinous fall into passion, delineated in the knowing light of Qui Gon's eyes. He turned, deftly avoiding Tahl's outstretched arm, and descended form the spire by way of the stairs, taking them three, four, six, ten at a time, leaping and bounding his way to the bottom, to the very foundation of self, where attachment and dedication warred with each other, a soundless brawling and clashing of principalities.

Panting, one hand on his saber, he rammed the unwelcome, forbidden, dangerous emotions into some psychic recess, some forgotten corner of his mind, and hastened away to the rigid and unyielding channels of duty, of stern, unyielding expectation, rigidly blocking out Qui Gon's attempts to touch his mind through their bond.

* * *

"He's dangerous. Why can't they sense it?"

Tahl sighed and watched the spinning stars trace their carillion overhead. "Perhaps they do sense it, Qui. But they are still willing to permit him his chance.'

"He had a chance. I gave him ten years."

She studied the lines of his face – the expressive mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the high and sloping forehead, the eyes… eyes like a dawn sky reflected in a quiet lake, eyes that often shone with the gentleness of the Living Force, with a compassion that flouted all restrictions – but which now glittered hard with a resurgence of pain long ago buried.

"And if Dooku wishes to give him another span of years, what is that to you? He is no longer your concern."

Qui Gon wrested his gaze from the artificial heavens and pinned her with those incomparable eyes, the laugh lines transformed to scars of regret, radiating unease. "I am responsible in some measure for _everything_ he does. And Obi Wan…"

She moved closer, until the same reflected light played over both their cloaks. The holoprojection spun lazily on its way, flowing past them with the inevitability of time. "He will find his own way. You've taught him well."

"This is different."

She found his fingers, hidden beneath the wide sleeve. "And when have you grown afraid of the unexpected? Your Padawan wasn't upset by Xanatos. He was imbalanced by _you. _ You should have seen him during your conference. He was _sick_ with it… you should have been more mindful, Qui. He felt your distress."

"He's too perceptive."

"No. He's too naïve. He worships you. And now you've shown yourself to be a mere mortal."

"I've never pretended to be anything other," he objected, wounded by the accusation.

She sighed, interlaced her fingers among his. The stars flowed onward, content in their constellations, their unvarying pattern. "I know," she breathed. Neither of them were anything more. The Force settled there between them, affirming their humble status, welling in the dark space as the galaxy's image floated serene above the map projector.

They closed their eyes together, and rested in it.

* * *

Archives. Classes. Dining hall. Study. Cleaning chores under BenTo Li's watchful eye. The day passed in a hypnotic blur, feelings bottled and cramped into the tightest corners of his soul fermenting, building in pressure until they claimed his whole attention, the outward and the habitual fading to dreamlike inconsequence. Hour upon hour passed, filled with rigorous activity, yet there was no release. He sought out the meditation gardens in the evening, in lieu of eating, hoping to leave his unrest there, among the burbling streams and quiet drooping fronds of the arboretum's paths.

But every time he knelt or stopped moving, the scattered shreds of his unease coalesced into a suffocating weight in his chest, a heaviness that squeezed away breath and constricted his heart. Concentration was impossible; and seeking counsel was out of the question, for what sure voice of wisdom was left?

He nearly ran from the useless refuge of that place, abandoning all hope of peace in quiet contemplation. His steps carried him, automatically, to the salles. There, trembling with an unfamiliar desire, he hesitated for a moment. There was a small, unoccupied practice room – one reserved for masters – but he was past bowing to the demands of propriety. If he did not _move, _ and soon, he would lose all self control. And what that might mean, he did not wish to find out.

The saber seemed to cry out on his behalf as he swept it into guard position, the hot thrum of the blade echoing the taut anguish twisting in his own gut. Together, they exploded, strange passions bleeding into blinding motion, into a dance of sheerest power. He fell back upon things learned early, carved into nerve and memory like blue fire, performing every Form I velocity at a breathtaking pace, the perfect weightless weapon nothing but an extension of his body, his body nothing but an extension of the Force, the roiling, clashing Force. Soon there was no self, only passion and motion…

…which was _wrong,_ he knew, and yet…

"Bravo."

His hurricane of motion ceased, the blade now growling a deep subliminal warning, ready for conflict, for opposition. He bowed, his blood still coursing madly in his veins, full of light, full of shadow, full of _emotion_ and power . "Master Dooku! Excuse me, I shall –"

"No, no." The elegant Jedi master waved a tolerant hand at him. "You may stay. Indeed, I enjoyed your performance exceedingly. I wonder… if you would make amends for your small trespass with a favor?"

The Force told him _no! _and a maddening _yes!_ and he frowned, wondering why it had never contradicted itself before, and why there were tears trailing down his face, when _there is no emotion, there is peace._ His heart hammered.

Dooku circled him. "You are a _very_ promising swordsman," he observed, casually. "As I have said before. Come! Let me show you a thing or two about the saber. I see you have at last built your own weapon."

"Yes, master." He held his ground, shining Light in his hand.

Dooku returned to face him, raised his chin a few centimeters, until he was looking down the length of his aristocratic nose. "I sense your _pain,"_ he said, coldly.

There was no pain. There was no anger. He was _Jedi._

The older man chuckled, very softly. "Not yet, Padawan. Not yet." He flicked his own blade into life, its green edge shimmering out of the distinctive curved hilt., and swung it in a tight flourish, a smug invitation to failure.

"Master. I was merely –"

"No, you were not. I think you are rather disappointed in dear Qui Gon, is that not right?"

The blow was invisible, motionless, and yet it left a searing line across his tenuous self-control. He shook his head, breath ratcheting into a faster rhythm.

Dooku nodded, took a step forward, his weapon humming silkily at his side. "The toppling of an idol is always an occasion of grief in the inexperienced," Dooku continued, merciless. "The man is as flawed and vulnerable as any other, child. As is the Council."

Obi Wan brought his saber across his body, backed away, hackles rising. "My master is-"

"Your master is not the Force, nor is the Council. The sooner you learn this lesson, the better. If you do not…. well. Bitterness is the inevitable result. You are bitter even now, and I assure you, this is only a _taste_ of the truth."

Chill seized him, Ilum's ice cascading down his spine, freezing his hot blood. _You have not the strength to bear it. Come hither and find your truth, little fool._ He yelled his defiance, the Force surged with his defiance, his blade howled and sang with his defiance.

Dooku's coolly laughing defense was bitter indeed.

He may as well have assaulted Ilum's frigid peaks, his blue lightning storm spattered and frayed upon preternatural majesty, cold stone rooted in nameless deeps. The silver-haired master _broke_ his fury and lashed at him, faster than thought, faster than the desperate flicker of wrath in his veins, faster than Light, leaving him sprawled, breath slammed from his body, upon the salle floor.

Anger screamed around them, hurt bleeding in the stunned Force, and he struck wildly at the cold master, channeling that pain back at its source, at the mouth that dared undermine the very _order_ of being. Dooku's blade came down, again, neatly parrying the strike, exposing his foe's belly, and tracing the most exquisitely accurate strike from navel to throat, ending with the green blade beneath the Padawan's chin.

"That is why we do not _ever_ fight with such undisciplined anger," Dooku frowned. "Your first lesson in Makashi. Remember it."

Anger lay disemboweled, vanquished beneath the strike. Dooku bore into the boy's agonized gaze for a long moment and calmly deactivated his weapon. He nodded, curtly. "Until next time."

And he was gone, closing the door behind him and turning the lights down, leaving the defeated Padawan alone in the dark.

* * *

Eventually Obi Wan limped his way through the dimmed corridors to his quarters, melting with an inexplicable relief when he discovered that Qui Gon was not there. His tiny, unadorned bedchamber provided little solace, but he stripped away his singed tunics and slathered some bacta on the searing crimson line carved into his flesh. The skin was puckered about the edges – it was not deep, but _painful, _ very painful. The soon to be scar bisected him, dividing him into halves: Jedi and angry boy, mind and heart, serenity and attachment. It hurt.

He laid his 'saber carefully on the stand by the bedside, hating that his unworthy hands had befouled its integrity so soon. He should _not_ have wielded it in anger. He wanted Qui Gon to return, and then he did not want him to return. The burn hurt even more as he wrenched his boots off and dropped them, uncaring upon the smooth floor.

Curling atop the thin mattress, not bothering with the light woven blanket, he closed his eyes. The Force was scarred too: innocence cut asunder, left to shrivel into a desiccated corpse. _It is an acceptable exchange._ Ilum's frost settled over his limbs, and he sank into it, one hand wrapped about the river stone which lay warm but passive in his palm, the other pressed against the throbbing burn on his belly.

He was asleep, and embroiled in vague and labyrinthine nightmare, before another minute had passed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 6: Orphan**

* * *

First light brushed a featherlight caress over Coruscant's hard-edged plains and valleys, breathing a faint grey into the ever-moving skyline, stroking golden fingers over the highest structures and pinnacles, a timid greeting.

Obi Wan padded through the common room, stopping outside the balcony where Qui Gon Jinn already knelt, absorbed in his customary pre-dawn meditation.. He stood, hesitant for a moment, pulling his cloak closer over bare shoulders. The Jedi master was motionless. The Force was tranquil, ebbing and flowing in placid rhythm. Yesterday's wild maelstrom had calmed, washed them up on a strange shore, an empty and contemplative one.

He slipped through the permaglass barrier and knelt beside the tall man. The morning air was cold, though dry. They exchanged no greeting yet; the Living Force wrapped about them, including the newcomer in its solemn embrace for a few minutes longer.

Qui Gon eventually broke the silence, though the Force still washed gently against them, lapping at the edge of awareness, a pulse of light yoked to their steady breathing. "Padawan," he said. "You were deeply disturbed yesterday."

It was true. He dipped his head. "Yes, master…. But so were you."

Qui Gon turned to regard him carefully, grey eyes looking through him to their shared memory of Xanatos, of the councilors and the round chamber atop the spire. The Jedi master released a long breath. "I was; and it is my duty to seek my own center in the Force once again. This is what is required of any one of us, should we lose our way, even in a small degree."

"Yes, master." The Padawan shifted, discontent.

Qui Gon faced the city once more. "Your balance should not depend so minutely upon my own," he said , after a long pause. "Such is a sign of an immoderate attachment."

Obi Wan watched the sun slowly illuminate the borders of the megalopolis. Attachment leads to the fear of loss… fear to pain, and anger…. He swallowed, recalling those weeds that had taken root, and grown to monstrous proportion within the space of a day. Anger leads to suffering. He rubbed gently at the burn trailing down his chest and belly. He knew that the Jedi master was waiting for his answer, but he could formulate no excuse or justification. He opted for merest honesty. "I… I am attached," he admitted, flushing a little. A grave failing. And yet… he looked up, hoping, perhaps, to hear that sentiment echoed.

Qui Gon's profile was etched in gold by the rising sun, seemingly carved of light. It glinted on a few loose strands of hair, on the slightly fraying collar of his tunic. He remained unmoving, silent, for a long stretch of time. The Force ebbed, flowed.

"Master?"

The tall Jedi closed his eyes briefly. "I share your failing," he said quietly. "And it is a dangerous one."

"But-"

Qui Gon raised a hand for silence, face still bathed in light, though his eyes traced over some faraway silhouette with absent melancholy. "I have accepted a short mission - on Thesspar. It should not take long."

"When do we leave?"

Qui Gon exhaled. "You are staying here, Padawan."

Obi Wan knew better than to issue any strident objection, though one or two magniloquent arguments to the contrary sprang, ready-formed, into his mind. He clamped his mouth shut and pretended absorbing interest in the far horizon.

"You have, I believe, several obligations yet to fulfill here in the Temple." The tall man waited for an affirming nod. "And… in light of yesterday's outburst… I think it may be time to practice a certain degree of _detachment._ This will be a much-needed exercise for both of us."

The far horizon lost any pretense of appeal, but the young Jedi kept his gaze locked on its stale, unchanging contours.

Qui Gon sighed. "Very well," he said brusquely. "You had better get going."

Obi Wan had never before been dismissed from this early morning ritual, sent on his way so peremptorily. He backed away, bumped into the transparent door in his distraction, and half-stumbled into the dim common room again. He took three long centering breaths and then strode firmly into his own room to dress. He would not brood.

Not when he was so… unsettled.

* * *

The first day of Qui Gon's absence was spent in brooding, sporadically interrupted by the demands of study and various penitential duties. It was not until noon on the second day that all thoughts of the _dangers of attachment_ and the conundrum of Xanatos DuCrion's presence in the Temple were driven out of Obi Wan's mind by a distraction of the first magnitude.

He was just accessioning a spate of new holo-books onto the upper tier stacks in the main library, having meekly endured Madame Nu's stern and pointed lecture on the _restrictions_ applying to various parts of the Archives collection, when a vibrant disturbance in the Force jolted his attention downward, to the database terminals on the west facing wall. From his high vantage point, he caught a glimpse of a tall cloaked figure seated in a private alcove below, and at the urgent prompting of the Force, he abandoned his task and peered over the railing, heart pounding with an inexplicable rapidity.

Master Syfo-Dyas was merely scrolling through text on the screen before him, as anyone might be expected to do; but the Force rippled in a wide, vertigo-inducing pattern, stretching the present moment into past and future, rendering the sunlight streaming through the high arched windows into a cascade of snowflakes, of falling white-armored men, of white ash. The young Jedi breathed deeply, staving off dizzying premonition, his resistance felt as a sickening _bad feeling_ deep in the gut.

He unclenched his hands from the railing and watched, half-entranced, as the Sentinel rose from his labors and strode determinedly to the holocron vault again. The Force's urging was a drumming inside his ribcage, an almost palpable pressure against the small of his back, a tightening in his throat. _Go, go, go._

In the face of such a command, regulations and protocol faded to inconsequence. He vaulted lightly over the rail, dropped straight to the marble floor and landed in a Force-cushioned crouch. A swift glance over one shoulder confirmed that his unconventional descent had not been observed. He slid into the recently vacated seat and called the database into life.

_Recall last search. Display results. Password required._

Another blockade. But the Force eddied slowly here, lingering traces of the last sentient still tinting its supernal currents, brushes of memory. He closed his eyes, reaching…. seeking…

The numbers and characters appeared, shattered, faded – a mere effervescence in the living Force. He tapped them into the touch pad, waited. The database took an intolerably long time to process the request. The Force swelled with warning.

A cold thrill down his spine preceded the patter of footfalls approaching from the stacks behind him. He had blanked the screen and retreated into the adjacent aisle in the next breath. Flattened against the glowing holovolumes on their orderly shelves, he risked a cautious glance around the corner.

Bruck Chun stood leaning over the data-screen, peering stiffly at the texts which now scrolled rapidly across its flat translucent surface. His pale eyes narrowed, uncomprehending, as he scanned over the information. Obi Wan cursed silently to himself, with a vehemence and creativity he would never display in Qui Gon's presence.

And then, without warning, without the slightest flutter in the Force, like a hawkbat dropping out of the sky on its unsuspecting prey, Syfo-Dyas returned to the alcove. He laid a long, knotted hand on Chun's shoulder, causing the white haired youth to start and pivot about in manifest embarrassment.

"Oh! Master Dyas," Bruck Chun stammered. "This terminal was left open and running."

The Shadow's face registered nothing but bland interest. "An oversight of mine, I fear. But I shall be using it again, if you don't mind."

"Yes, master." Chun bowed and backed away, his obeisance apparently unmarked by the tall Sentinel. He stumbled into the stacks where Obi Wan now feigned absorption in a menial filing task.

"Kenobi," he hissed, breathing down the other boy's neck. "What were you doing poking into the Sentinel's business?"

"I don't know what you are talking about, Chun." He shoved a holobook neatly into its space, not turning around, hoping that the situation justified his mendacity.

"I saw you. Looking at Master Dyas' files. That's a breach of protocol."

"Is it?" Obi Wan replaced another book, shrugged. "I didn't see anything curious in those files, did you?"

Bruck Chun's sharp inhalation was disturbingly similar to the spitting hiss of a saber blade springing from its hilt. "My conscience is pricking me, Kenobi. I'm afraid I'm going to have to speak to Master Jinn about this."

_Oh, Force._ "You must do what you think is right, of course."

"I will," the other promised, and stalked away, leaving a sharp wake of resentment behind.

Obi Wan cautiously edged away from the lower level, and returned to brooding with a vengeance.

* * *

"Master Uvain."

"Stand aside, young one. I've been commissioned to feed you, and I will brook no opposition. I intend to complete this mission at any cost." Tahl shouldered her way past with characteristic grace, bearing a ceramic tureen in the crook of one cloaked arm.

Obi Wan hastily moved his datapad and holovolumes from the common room's single low-set table. "Far be it from me to impede your duty, master."

"That's the right attitude," she observed. "Now fetch some dishes."

He bowed, mischievously. "Of course, I must tell you that the Code forbids us to accept any remuneration for services rendered. Our reward is simply to have served."

The Jedi master set the heavy crock in the exact center of the table. "You've been practicing, I see. But what would you say were I to take offense at your refusal and threaten to renege on the recently ratified peace-treaty?"

The spicy _djo_ filled Qui Gon's quarters with a tantalizing aroma. Obi Wan's eyebrows rose. "You misunderstand. I am honored to accept your hospitality, on behalf of the Galactic Republic. May this occasion mark the beginning of a lasting peace on this world."

Tahl's golden eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Too much hauteur," she judged, at length. "I might misconstrue your words as subtle mockery, take further offense, and depart in a huff."

The young Jedi grinned impishly. "So long as you leave the food behind."

"Hm." They sat, and Tahl served the hot and savory dish, and they ate in a comfortable silence.

Only when Obi Wan had finished his second generous helping did he venture any further impudence. "I am very grateful for your kindness," he told his unexpected visitor. "But I don't require _feeding._Something tells me this is more of a reconnaissance run than a mercy mission."

Tahl snorted. "Aren't you clever. Eat first and ask questions later."

"Discretion is the better part of diplomacy.' His eyes slid sideways to consider the balcony doors, rendered opaque by the darkness outside. "Master Qui Gon should know better than to send an emissary who gives concessions before verifying the terms of agreement. "

"Perhaps I should have known better than to take this assignment in the first place."

"So he did send you."

"My exact mandate, " she placidly informed him, "Was to forestall brooding. He predicted that you would be in rare form by the end of the second day."

"I don't require a mind healing session," the Padawan replied tartly, setting his utensil down with crisp precision. "And I am _not _brooding."

Tahl neatly tidied away the empty dishes and crock. "You just scowl like that all the time, to scare away inquisitive younglings and the occasional holonet reporter?"

The scowl deepened to a precocious ferocity. "I don't know why he bothered to send you," Obi Wan groused, "When he is supposed to be practicing _detachment."_

Tahl leaned back a bit, studied her interlocutor calmly. "Oh, is that why he didn't take you along? And here I naturally assumed you had reaped the consequences of further malfeasance. Forgive my presumption."

The Padawan colored a little. "I – I did not mean to betray a confidence. I assumed – Master tells you … I mean, you –"

She laughed aloud at his horrified backpedaling. "Don't fret. Even if he didn't confide in me, I would find out. That's what I do, remember? Now why don't you just tell me what you're brooding about?"

One corner of his mouth twitched, although the frown remained carved in place. "Because you'll find out, anyway?"

She slid her shapely hands across the table's narrow width and grasped his fingers. " I might even possess some shred of insight you've not yet attained," she offered wryly.

The young Jedi exhaled slowly, the frown finally softening to pained bewilderment. "Why did Master Dooku bring Xanatos back to the Temple? He's not…_whole. _ I can feel it."

Tahl leaned forward. "You would forbid a wounded or ill Jedi the refuge of the Temple? There are some here, under the care of the healers, who will never be whole again. That is an unworthy and selfish thought."

He cringed a little but ploughed onward. "Forgive me – I meant, he is _twisted._ He… even my master was disturbed by him. Why doesn't the Council see that?"

She tightened her grip on his hands, forbidding the inward-curling motion of his fingers, smoothing incipient fists back into a relaxed position, kneading a little at the tautening muscles. "The Council knows full well that Qui Gon is disturbed, and that Xanatos is… possibly broken irreparably. But our path is not one that takes a detour around obstacles, or skirts adversity. I've known your master all my life. Xanatos was a tragedy which you, young one, cannot hope to imagine – and may the Force spare you its like. Qui Gon suffered, and eventually did indeed move past that loss. But simply because we move on, does not mean that certain challenges will not rush to meet us again and again at different points on our path. He will have to release and move on again, that is all."

"And it is none of my concern." Obi Wan added, bitterly.

"Not if your contribution is to be upset on your master's behalf rather than doing anything useful." Painful words, but true. Tahl did not loose her grip, and waited out the ensuing silence with the patience of long habit.

"Useful?" he said, after a lengthy pause.

"You must seek your own resolution with Xanatos, and trust your master to find his own peace. _That_ would be productive."

Obi Wan nodded, the serious mask falling back into place, shadowing over his natural light like the deep cowl of a cloak. "I understand," he said quietly. "I will meditate on your words."

She sighed, releasing him and collecting the soiled dishes with a sweep of her arms. "Apparently I've failed; I was _supposed_ to alleviate your melancholy, not give you more cud to chew."

"The food was excellent, master. I do feel _fed. _ If it's any consolation."

'It's not," she assured him with a warm smile. "But as you pointed out earlier, our reward is simply to have served."

She was gratified to receive a very deep but sincere bow in parting.

* * *

The third consecutive day was passed in uninterrupted brooding upon Tahl Uvain's words; indeed, their difficult import served as such defense against any other distraction that Obi Wan found himself finished with his tedious and very full schedule well in advance of the usual hour.

"You're here early today," Bant cheerfully exclaimed when he showed up to the healer's ward to complete his stint of duty _there._

Obi Wan dredged up a smile for her and set about gathering supplies. "I so look forward to this task, I couldn't wait any longer."

The Mon Cal Padawan hurried after him. "I just have one or two things to complete – I'll be right back to help you."

"There's no need. This is my responsibility, Bant." He wearily tossed his cloak over the deactivated form of the cleaning droid – the one which _should _ by all rights be performing its function rather than gathering dust in a maintenance storage closet. The droid's blank optics stared blearily at him, devoid of any opinion whatsoever. "That's mine. Don't get too attached," he informed it acidly.

Bant's duties kept her rather a long time. He had completed all the easy tasks and was nearly finished with the floor- hands and knees, no _cutting corners, _ per Master Li's instructions – when she finally hurried back to help him, remorsefully wringing her hands.

"I'm so sorry – there was an emergency with one of the crechelings, and then … oh dear. You've already done everything."

He straightened, and flicked the last filthy cleaning cloth into its chemical-bath receptacle with a frivolous and accurate use of the Force.

"Here, let me help you put it away. Look at the droid! He's very dignified, isn't he? Just throw that in the 'cycler, its not sanitary to use it again… no, the other one, you gundark. I wish you hadn't come so early – if we'd done it together we might have had a chance to talk. I'm not mad at you anymore, you know, really."

He looked away. "I know. I'm sorry, Bant.. I'm just tired."

But the perceptive Mon Cal was not so easily duped. "Oh!" she exclaimed, coming in under his guard with a Makashi strike, wrapping him in an unexpected and incontrovertible embrace.

He sucked in a sharp breath as her tender ministrations irritated the burn trailing down his midriff.

"What is it?"

"Nothing – a saber mishap – I'm fine."

"No you don't," his stubborn friend reprimanded him. "You are injured – _again-_ and I am oath-bound to render aid. Don't you _dare_ bamboozle me again. Let me help. Here, come into this room. You _owe_ me a little cooperation."

"Blast it, Bant!" But he obeyed her injunction. Because he _did_ owe her that much.

"Lie back," she ordered, snapping into efficient _healer_ mode with alarming brusqueness. "Let's see what we have here." She pulled apart his tunics, peered at the burn, ran a gentle finger along the edge of the damaged skin. "Star's sake, Obi! You don't do anything by halves, do you? And it's _infected_ here, by your navel. I think it's quite adorable how humans have theirs smack in the middle of their bellies, don't you?"

"I have not deeply meditated on it, " he replied, dryly, staring at the pale ceiling while she poked and prodded to her heart's content.

"How long ago did this happen?"

He rolled his eyes. "Three days ago. It's nothing, it's simply a –"

"I already told you it's not nothing." Bant's enormous eyes were half-hooded by dark lids. "You really should stay. This needs treatment."

Enough was enough. "Bant, I deeply appreciate your concern, but I'm far too busy to be bothered with the healers' ward. And I've been treating it myself."

""Like a strung-out spice smuggler, maybe. Did you put bacta on that without cleaning it properly first?" The Mon Cal Padawan turned her head a little, squinting at him through one narrowed, globular eye. "That's a good way to create resistant bacteria."

He ground his teeth, and rose to his feet. "Bant, I really must be going. I'll … I'll come back as soon as I'm available, and you can practice then."

The Mon Cal girl made to block the exit, but he was too agile for her. He bowed, already halfway through the door. "Good night, Bant. I'll be fine – thank you." His escape was effected before his friend could make any other awkward and problematic inquiries, or cause him any further delay.

It also lasted all of five seconds. Ben To Li was waiting in ambush just a few paces down the corridor. The healer pointed an unremitting finger in the direction of the room the patient had just fled, and then steered the young Jedi back inside by the shoulders. "This is where you graciously admit defeat, " he informed his prisoner, and waved the door shut behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 7: Dreamer**

* * *

_The river in the arboretum ran with blood, churned into a pink froth by the waterfall tumbling over its artificial cliff. _

_He looked up, squinting against the illumination banks overhead. At the summit, wreathed in painful striations, the dark silhouette of a massive gundark, a thing sinuous, cunning, nearly invisible against the blinding light behind. It fled, even as he strove to scale the slippery cliff._

_The icy cascade of water pushed against him, pummeling at his head and shoulders, seeking to loose his grip on the mossy stone. He strained against the current, struggling to ascend, to reach the top, where the murderous dragon had disappeared…_

_But the chilling torrent turned to hot crimson, and his hands slipped in the steaming gore, and he fell headlong, onto sharp rocks below, onto death, the Force roaring in his ears._

Obi Wan woke with a start and a loud cry, drenched, shivering…but… there was no river. No rocks. His pulse evened out as the dream receded, and the painful scintillation of light in water and air dimmed to the soothing ambience of the healers's ward, where the treachery of Bant and BenTo Li held him captive overnight. He rubbed at the sticky gauze surrounding his torso and noted with a pang of irritation that the burn now itched like the blazes and felt hot to the touch. Actually, his entire body felt hot to the touch.

"Blast it." He threw off the heavy coverlet and slid to the floor. The night-shift droid thrummed into the small room, followed by Bant Eerin, her huge Mon Cal eyes blinking slowly, dispelling the vestiges of interrupted sleep.

"Do you require assistance?" the hovering robot politely inquired.

"No."

"You can go, MD5," Bant informed it.

"I'm fine. A dream. It's no cause for concern."

"Hmph." She chivvied him backward, grabbed his wrist and fixed him with a suspicious glare, one webbed hand propped on her hips in a posture of hostile dubiety. "You're a bit feverish, but that might just mean accelerated tissue regeneration. As long as the infection is still localized….. I think I'll have another look, and then put you back in a healing trance."

"No. Bant –"

The Mon Cal Padawan glowered, her bulbous eyes gleaming with a fierce light evoking her warrior ancestry. "You heard Master Li. You cooperate, or I suffer the consequences."

The absolute injustice of this ultimatum had him scowling fit to match her. They faced off for a full minute, and then he yielded. After all, given the choice between protecting the innocent and protecting the innocent, he was bound to choose the particular innocent that was _not_ himself. But he still resented the senior healer for his treacherous and dishonorable tactics.

"Is this tender?" Bant asked, setting about her occult arts.

"Why – are you going to eat me?"

"Would you stop? Or do I have to call one of the crèche-masters in here, to _hold you down?"_

He grimaced at the recollection of that particular long-ago event, and noted that any _healer_ who had known one since infancy was possessed of a truly malignant and unfair advantage. "All right, it's … a bit _sensitive."_

The Mon Cal girl made a note on the datapad. "Hurts like holy chisszk," she translated, dryly.

"Bant!"

"I'll be right back; I think Master Li needs to see this. Don't go _anywhere."_

He released a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes, the after image of the scarlet-stained river and the shadowy beast at the waterfall's summit still burned upon his inner eye. The Force seethed with unrest, with the electric tension before an imminent storm. He shuddered. _The future is always in motion. Dreams show many things: some that are, some that have been, some that may yet be. Premonition is a fickle guide; actions founded on its whim are built on shifting sand._

"Well, good morning," BenTo Li smirked, bustling in, dressed in a long night shift, his black and silver mane flowing past his shoulders. "What's this, now?" He pressed one hand against his victim's belly, and laid the other on his forehead. "Hm. Not good. No, you're right, Padawan," he addressed Bant, "That is concerning."

"I don't think-" Obi Wan began.

"No, you don't. That much is obvious. You should have been in here at least a day ago, if not before.," the healer cut him off. "Where is Master Jinn right now?"

"He's on a solo mission… Thesspar," Obi Wan informed them, dully.

"And where have you been recently?"

"Um… Halifex Minor, Yarrad 6, Ord Maglon, Terruvai, and an asteroid mining colony in the Pellegri sector. And Ilum."

Ben To snorted. "The Council certainly keeps you two running about. Did you say Ilum? The ice caves?"

Obi Wan smiled, the triumph of that moment suffusing the bothersome present with a welcome light of remembrance. His fingers seemed to brush against the saber's hilt, as though seeking the crystal nestled deep inside, the pure tone of its inaudible chiming, though the weapon lay safely to one side on a small table. "Yes."

The healer stroked his pointed beard. "Here is my best conjecture: You've picked up a microbe somewhere out there. My guess would be Terruvai; it's a slovenly pit of filth at the best of times. Then you compromise your system with a bout of hypothermia, come home and promptly get carved to pieces, spend two or three nights not sleeping properly – don't bother to deny it, your file is _right here_ and we've been friends a long time, haven't we? – and so land yourself with a blood infection. The good news is, you'll live to be a wiser man. The bad news is, I have to deal with you in the meanwhile."

"May that be of blessedly short duration," the Padawan grumbled.

"Indeed," BenTo amicably agreed, entering notes in the datapad at a furious speed, then murmuring a suspiciously lengthy set of instructions to Bant Eerin, before taking his leave.

No sooner had he departed than Bant moved in for the kill. "And this time, no tactical evasion," she warned. "You are about to sleep for twelve hours straight, like it or not."

The ensuing battle was cutthroat, but mercifully swift. Bant Eerin emerged victorious, with the satisfaction of accomplishing what she had not been able during their first, more protracted skirmish. She tucked her sick, feverish, and decidedly oblivious friend in with an exhilarating sense of conquest, and sauntered down the corridor with a spring in her step.

Perhaps Master Li would grant her an instant promotion after all.

* * *

Qui Gon's holotransmission came through at eighteenth hour local Coruscant time the next day.

"I see you've discovered a new method of shirking odious responsibility," the tall Jedi remarked dryly, his shimmering blue effigy wavering slightly above the portable projector plate.

Obi Wan was so pleased to see the Jedi master again – even at the distance of twenty two and a half parsecs – that he neglected to make any sarcastic retort. "Is your mission nearly complete, master?"

"Nearly. I trust you can stay of trouble in the meantime?"

The Padawan's mouth twisted. "Master Li and Bant intend to leave me little choice in that regard." He rubbed at the painful, itching line of the healing burn, shifted restlessly within the confines of the med-ward bed. "They seem to think I'm a pathetic invalid."

One of Qui Gon's brows rose. "And whose fault is that? I don't think you've explained to me how you came by a saber burn in the first place; I understood your schedule was too full to admit any time for recreation in the dojo."

Accusing Master Dooku of deliberate… abuse… would be problematic. And childish. "I engaged someone much more experienced," he admitted. "It was foolish."

"I see" It was hard to read Qui Gon's expression through the medium of a blurred image; and even more disconcerting was the lack of a Force presence. Holograms were challenging that way; some said that a true master could sense an interlocutor's feelings and intentions even through such a tenuous connection, but Obi Wan had not attained to such rarefied skill. He frowned at the unfamiliar _blankness_ between them, the ambiguity.

The miniature blue Qui Gon folded his arms. "You will of course cooperate with Ben To, and comply with all his instructions. It would be a shame to add _more_ demands to your already taxing daily routine. Consider my authority temporarily transferred to him."

This was a miserable command, far more repugnant than the addition of further punishment would have been. The young Jedi sank into a sullen acceptance of his fate. Clearly the Force had abandoned him utterly. 'Yes, master."

The hologram Qui Gon might have almost smiled. It was difficult to tell, and Obi Wan was in no mood to bandy about pleasantries. "I am sorry to add to your burdens, master," he added, heavily. "I did not mean to distract your attention from the mission."

"You are not a burden, Padawan. May the Force be with you." And that was that. The flickering image died away, leaving him alone in the healers' clutches, and under obligation to _obey_ them as though he were oath-sworn to do so. He collapsed backward against the pillows, and idly levitated a few small items left upon the narrow shelf across the room. One or two instruments of torture, a spare tunic, a plastoid cup half-full of water. He sank a little deeper into the Force, and began to raise the water even further, holding it suspended in tenuous droplets above the rim of the cup, thinking perhaps of gently wafting them, ever so carefully, into the grated ventilation opening above, just for fun- or what passed for amusement in the absence of anything else to occupy his nervous energy.

"Impressive," a deep, textured voice declared from the open doorway. The water droplets spattered to the floor, and the other objects clattered awkwardly as they hit the shelf. The cup bounced and rolled away, to land at the intruder's booted feet.

Yan Dooku flicked one wrist, and sent the small object sailing into its wonted place. He then pulled the chromium stool from its lurking-place in the corner and settled himself companionably upon it, casting one drape of his long, black cloak over his left shoulder with an elegant gesture.

"Master Dooku." It was impossible to bow properly from his present position. Obi Wan settled for a respectful nod.

"Ah," the Jedi master smiled, a tightening of the mouth which did not travel to his piercing grey eyes. "I foolishly thought I heard Qui Gon's voice in here. You must have been speaking with him via hologram."

"Yes, master – he wished for an update."

Dooku studied him intently. "I am sorry to find you in ill health, Padawan. I had hoped, perhaps, to continue our discussion of Makashi technique."

Obi Wan's hand rubbed absently at his middle. The Force was slippery, shifting beneath his awareness. He swallowed, raised his mental shields a trifle. "I am still learning the first lesson," he said, darkly.

The subtlest trace of humor glinted in Dooku's gaze, then shifted away, diaphanous and mutable as morning fog. "The next need not be so painful. Much depends on the disposition of the student."

"Yes, master."

"Unless you do not wish to continue? I assure you, I will take no offense if you feel Makashi is too challenging."

The words were carefully calculated; but knowing this fact did not smother the embers of resentment. He sat up straighter, locked eyes with the elder Jedi. "I don't leave my fights unfinished."

Dooku's silver eyebrows twitched upward at this display. "Your bravado is amusing," he said, with a forced chuckle. "But…ah, misplaced. There is no conflict to solve between us… your adversary is your own temperament."

"Is that the second lesson, then?"

"No," the Jedi master replied, serenely. "That is a fundamental principle of all saber-play. Indeed, of all combat, of every kind. He who masters himself masters his opponent easily, for the greater battle is already won."

"And he who doesn't?'

Dooku's penetrating gaze narrowed to a singularity. "You refer to DuCrion? Really, child, you ought to speak to the man. It would be salutary for both of you. I can't think of anyone on the entire Order with whom you have more in common."

The saber burn flared with sudden pain, and Obi Wan watched, wary and unsettled, as Dooku released a small sigh and stood, his eyes raking over the tiny room and its occupant with casual indifference. "Come see me when you have recovered," he ordered imperiously. "I shall instruct you further then."

"If my master gives his permission."

Dooku's piercing look was a saber thrust in and of itself. "Of course," he replied smoothly, the Force barely rippling about him, as though he slid through its currents like a leviathan of the deeps, a dweller in some ethereal ocean's abyss. His cloak flowed, pouring over its own length like an endless dark waterfall, as he strode away.

* * *

The next morning brought a marked improvement in conditions.

"I propose an armistice treaty." Ben To Li twirled the point of his silver-streaked beard. "I shall release you from the Halls, on condition that you do _nothing_ strenuous whatsoever and do not leave the Temple precinct. Padawan Eerin will be in charge of supervising your case."

"Where do I sign?" The prospect of escape, even under such restrictive terms, was too appealing to pass up.

The healer fixed him with a stern eye. "Madame Nu has released you from duty, as have I. No classes or studies for a day or two. And when I say, nothing _strenuous, _ that means you will not set foot in the dojo under penalty of my extreme displeasure."

"You'll be fine," Bant reassured him, "As long as you rest."

Ben To escorted him out the main entrance. "If you relapse, youngling, I will personally make your next stay here an occasion to _remember."_

Obi Wan turned a cold shoulder on both of them and took his leave with utmost dignity. There were times when no reply was the best reply. Such manifestly uncouth threats deserved no courtesy in exchange.

* * *

Doing _nothing_ proved a very challenging task. Obi Wan walked idly through the lower levels of the Temple, glad to be on his feet again, and loathe to sit still quite yet. Meditation was undoubtedly the best thing for him at this moment, but the need to simply move about outweighed all other considerations. At last, having traversed most the wide corridors and halls at least twice, he headed for the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

At this time of morning, the arboretum was almost empty. The Temple possessed its own daily rhythm; and while the meditation gardens were a popular retreat in the early morning, and the quiet evening and night hours, the middle of the day saw them abandoned for council chamber, classroom, archives, dojo, map room, communications center, transport hangar, dining hall. He was all but alone; only a few other beings' signatures could be felt, moving slowly among the winding paths and burbling streams.

He was striding energetically along the outer edge of the gardens, upon the gravel path skirting the yarbanna grove, when Bruck Chun appeared along the same path, heading in the opposite direction. The gravel trail was too narrow to accommodate two abreast. Obi Wan drew aside, stepping onto the mossy stones lining the path, and bowed as the other youth stormed past. Bruck Chun stared at him a little as he swept by, but quickly picked up pace and moved on without a word of greeting, disappearing around the bend into green mottled shadow.

The waterfall's roar was a distant thunder.

The Force surged high in warning, in expectation, in the scattered diaspora of possible and probable.

Obi Wan's fingers drummed against his saber's hilt, then closed about the ridged handgrip, tracing over the familiar shape. Rest. He was supposed to rest. BenTo's authority was equivalent to Qui Gon's. He resolutely turned his face in the other direction and continued on his way.

For a solid minute. And then he stopped, the Force tautening, roaring behind his ears like the subliminal pounding of the falls. Light seemed to coalesce on the path before him, barricading his way. Dust motes and pollen granules swirled in the descending shaft, fluttering uneasily, circling and shivering in the beam, distraught at his hesitance.

He stood suspended between the immediate prompting of the Force and the command laid upon him by the masters….

And then he turned back, and hurried along in Bruck Chun's wake, his boots strewing small pebbles as he hastened to make up for lost time, a pressure of urgency building in his chest, chiming faintly in his mind. _Go, go, go._

The path had several branches. He took a wrong one, backtracked, calmed his breathing, listened, chose another. The trail broke off and ran alongside the artificial river, heading for the base of the falls. He broke into a jog, needing to outrun premonition, to beat the future to the finish line, to forestall the inevitable. The sound of the frothing water rose to drown out the quiet; mist ballooned up in iridescent curtains, obscuring the foliage beyond, caressing his face with cold fingers. He came to the edge of the cliff, where the cascade of purified water fell endlessly onto rocks below, its shattering and dying a strange melody, the millions of droplets a stinging bath. Here the path ended; but nobody was to ber found. His heart skipped. He should have taken the last bend, the one which led to carved stairs and another trail along the top of the falls.

The Force was deafening silence; sensation momentarily fell, anchorless, tumbling into timeless awareness like the plummeting water.

He gasped, looked up, saw the dark silhouette begin to fall, a body limp and graceful, hurtling down onto rocks below.

He held out two hands, tried to stop the descent, slow the pull of gravity, nudge the twisting mass of white hair and cream tunic to the side, into the water, not the rocks…

But Bruck plunged, headfirst, into the river just beyond the jagged boulders at the falls' base. One second, two seconds…

Obi Wan dove in, the chill of the water unnoticed, and sank to the bottom. The current was a maelstrom, dragging at his limbs, pushing him down and sideways, around and around. He could see nothing but murk and angry white bubbles. He let the river push him, shove him mercilessly against its slimy, hard bottom, the channel carved for it long ago by craftsmen's tools. His hands tangled in cloth, scrabbled at warm flesh. He hauled Bruck up by the shoulders, feeling the deadweight drag at his arms. The Force gathered about them; he pushed off the bottom, strained back for the light at the surface.

They broke free, above the surging river's current, struggled and panted and squirmed for the bank. He heaved Bruck out, inelegantly, the other boy's head lolling against him, sickeningly unresponsive. Water streaming from his clothing, he knelt, turned Bruck onto his back.

And choked a little, turning his face away from the spectacle of the caved-in skull, the dead and staring eyes. Blood seeped onto the delicate moss, stained the polished stones. The Force shouted with outrage; he looked up, up to the top of the falls, where a dark silhouette was etched against the blinding light of the illumination banks overhead, blurred by the veiling mist. A predator gazing down on its fallen prey, like a gundark on the prowl.

He stood, shaking. He felt others running, approaching the scene of disaster, responding to the disturbance in the Force. The figure at the brink turned, and retreated. With a sharp cry, he bounded toward the face of the cliff, springing half way up its slick surface, climbing and leaping recklessly for the summit, in hot pursuit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 8: Hunter**

* * *

The face of the cliff was slick with moisture and lichen; more than once, Obi Wan nearly lost his grip and fell. He cast one worried glance over his right shoulder, gauging the distance to the waterfall's base and whether it would be wiser to dive straight down or to attempt a springing plunge into the shallower river, if he _should_ fall – but the urgency of his quest drove him onward, without time to consider his theoretical fate in more than abstract terms.

He pulled himself over the lip of Quexall granite and sprang to his feet. Here the condensation was thick, the clouds of evaporating water from the river and the gardens below a white miasma of droplets, a humid blanket stirred up by the huge full-spectrum lamps above. He plunged onward, knowing that the retreating figure – the _murderer- _ had only one trail to follow, one route of escape.

_Murderer. _Even as he ran, pounding across the groomed path, dodging bushes and low planter-tiers, the realization dawned in all its awful majesty. There had been a cold-blooded, brutal slaying here. In the Temple. Home. The sense of a sanctuary violated drove him faster, his sprint transforming into a series of wild leaps. He skidded to a halt at the head of the trail, cast his eyes downward along the narrow rough-hewn stairwell leading to the gardens below…. But there was no one there.

_Up._ He pivoted, cast his gaze up, squinting through the obscuring mist. Nothing above this level, this lonely pinnacle where the river began, except the mighty roof girders and supports, and the blazing illumination banks overhead. A pedestrian causeway – a contained tube of durasteel and permaglass – cut across the space near the ceiling, joining the crechelings' dormitories to dining halls and classrooms on the same high level. He saw nothing… sensed nothing.

The Force jolted him into action, his saber flying into a ready hand just as the unexpected, unforeseen attack whistled, humming, above his head. He rolled upright, his own weapon springing into life, blue flame cast about by a bright halo in the mist. He registered the cloaked form of a tall man, an enemy armed with a green blade, bearing down on him again. He parried, blocked, spun overhead, an Ataru defensive ploy employed here in deadly earnest. Heat singed his belly as he arced downward, his foe's upward strike nearly finding its mark.

He landed hard on the uneven footing but flowed forward anyway, saber dancing, cutting a tight sphere about himself, looking for a weakness in the other's aggressive attack. He caught a downward strike on his raised blade, and grunted as the blow hammered through both arms and spine. His enemy was _strong, _ and fighting with power. A sloppy disengage, a step backward, another near miss as he twisted to the side to avoid impalement; he shouted, switched into a dizzying pattern, feinted, and again, and lunged in under his opponent's guard.

His strike was anticipated – a twisting parry nearly disarmed him. He backflipped away from the killing blow, again feeling the searing heat of a saber blade pass within centimeters of his back. Of his _spine._

His breath came faster. He had fought for his life before. He had fought against another saber-wielder before. But not both these things at once. This Jedi was trying to _kill_ him.

He made another lightning fast attack, his blade howling in the heated air between them, the tight arena of the duel. The cloaked figure held out a hand, and Obi Wan took the brunt of the Force-push in the diaphragm, somersaulting backward and landing in an inelegant skid, supine.

In a heartbeat he was on his feet again, expecting a savage blow; but his enemy had taken the moment to flee, melting into the mist, springing up the vast roof girders in a sinuous, liquid display of agility. He watched the impossible ascent, heart hammering, belly twisting. This person would rather preserve his anonymity than face off in a fight…

"Xanatos," he muttered. The massive support beams stretched overhead, a fretwork of wide-spaced pillars and buttresses. The dark cloak of his foe already was visible close to the pedestrian concourse, the domed arboretum ceiling. There were ventilation shafts, maintenance access hatches, myriad avenues of escape up there. He felt in his belt pouches, but a cable launcher was something seldom carried within the Temple. Cursing, he sized up the girders once more. "Blast. _Blast."_

But there was no choice. He clipped his saber to his belt and took a powerful running start, springing upward at the last moment, sailing through the humid air, his hands reaching, slapping against, clinging to the smooth and hard-edged girder, his body hitting the cold surface a moment later. The impact was off-center; but he pulled up his legs and sprang away again, knowing that there was no level plane, no hand-grip, nothing to break his fall should he drop and nothing to hold him in place but the impetus of his motion. He sprang, upward and upward, zig-zagging wildly up the scaffolding, in contiuous motion. His last jump carried him high over the illumination banks, the Force surging through his veins, lifting him in a mighty arc until he came to a sliding halt upon the curved roof of the pedestrian walkway, wobbling precariously on its slippery metallic surface.

In the next instant he was on the defensive again. The cloaked Jedi charged at him along the tube's length, saber dazzling in the shadows above the lamps. They clashed, exchanging blows at a frantic pace, teetering over the chasm below, the gardens completely hidden in their own clouds. A hard strike knocked Obi Wan's saber off center; a kick caught him in the chin and sent him flailing over the edge.

He plummeted, weapon still in hand, twisting around in the air before slamming onto the top of the nearest light bank. The metal casing was hot agony, searing through the cloth of his tunics, blazing a shocking swath of pain across knees, belly and chest. He cried out in pain, sprang to his feet, pushed off again, landing awkwardly atop the pedestrian tube. His foe was already dashing away, making for an open vent shaft in the high ceiling.

Ignoring the throbbing waves of pain, the certainty that his jaw had been fractured or dislocated, he plunged forward, barely seeing. He _would not_ allow the murderer to escape. He watched the dark figure leap, as graceful as flowing water, up into the dark hole above, and sprang into the open gap himself, saber hissing back into life as he crossed the threshold, half-expecting to be assaulted even as he rolled into the black shaft beyond.

The saber's blade lit the walls with an eerie glow. Far ahead, boots pounded away down the tunnel. He wiped sweat from his face with one sleeve, breath rasping hard in his chest, limbs trembling. He closed his eyes and drew in the Force, feeling its strength flood his emptied body, sparkle brightly in his blood, illumine the dark mist encroaching on his vision. Armed with borrowed strength, he pelted through the dark wormhole, the bowels of the Temple infrastructure, pursuing the villain.

* * *

They penetrated further and further, making abrupt turns and changes of direction, sometimes crawling, once or twice sliding headlong down a steep and confining shaft, until they issued into a long and black corridor too small to stand up inside. The sabers were dormant, compressed potentialities, tongues of flame waiting within their hilts. The blackness was absolute. He felt his adversary _disappear._

Panting, forced into a cramped crouch, he also slipped deep into the Force, into nothingness, into shadow and phantasm, floating, un-present, shielded in Light, invisible.

They waited, soundless, sightless, cloaked in the Force, prowling on hands and knees, barely breathing. Time spun out into a measureless night. The thrum of air passing through some adjacent venting passage was a subliminal roar, the growl of a distant waterfall. Obi Wan blocked the image of Bruck Chun's mutilated head and face from his mind – but not before it left a delicate ripple of distress in the plenum, a beacon-fire to betray his position.

The other man slammed into him like a hunting colwar, knocking him backward in the close space, his skull rapping smartly against the floor. He fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, grappling hand to hand, wrestling against the killer with every scrap of strength he possessed. The saber hilts scraped and clinked against the hard plastoid walls of the shaft, seeking room to ignite. At such close quarters, there was no question of blocking a strike, only avoiding instant death by impalement. He thrust knees, elbows, fists, into whatever target presented itself. The pommel of his foe's weapon drove in hard beneath his ribs and then cracked against his collarbone. He kicked savagely, driving the two of them apart, gasping.

"_Arrogant brat,"_ a harsh voice hissed in the blackness, threat ringing in every syllable.

Obi Wan ignited his blade, plunged it into the paneling beneath himself, and carved a tight circle, falling through the narrow opening as his enemy lunged vainly overhead.

He landed amid neatly stacked boxes, storage containers, power cells and other supply containers. Catching the murderer had been replaced on his agenda by merely _surviving _ to tell the masters… he stumbled into a row of shelving, and gripped at his collarbone, where hot blood seeped. The last blow had broken the skin, left a damp trail trickling down his chest and belly. No matter; adrenaline and the Force masked all pain.

He waved the door open, made it into the corridor. Maintenance bots droned hither and thither. He had no idea where he was. His steps faltered as his borrowed strength faded, leaving him wrung out, his urgency spreading like floodwaters into an unfocused panic.

A hand settled on his shoulder, long fingers digging in painfully. "Kenobi."

He looked up into the disapproving eyes of Yan Dooku.

* * *

The arboretum was stage to a scene of mingled chaos and grief.

"Here is our missing Padawan," Master Dooku announced, propelling his young companion forward to the circle of masters gathered solemnly by the edge of the artificial river.

Mace Windu's dark face was carved of stern ebony. "Obi Wan," he frowned down upon the young Jedi. "Explain."

Bruck Chun's body was concealed beneath a drape of pale cloth, a ghostly veil hanging over the edge of a hovergurney. BenTo Li stood nearby, conversing with some others. The waterfall roared, an endless lament welling out primordial, elemental song. Mist settled over them all, the Light broken and scattered into a million tiny spheres, incoherent, jumbled as his thoughts.

Mace Windu crouched down, the frown on his face deepening. "Padawan."

Dooku's hand exerted an excruciating pressure, jarring the hurt collarbone out of place. ObI Wan wriggled away, biting back a shout of pain. Qui Gon was not here. Bruck Chun was dead, and his killer escaped. The Temple had been violated, its refuge destroyed, its white walls stained by blood. He looked down at his hands and found that they were covered in blood too, as was the front of his damp and disheveled tunic.

"He fell," Obi Wan told the Council member. "He was pushed. Off the top of the waterfall. He – I tried to save him, I pulled him out of the water, but his head…"

"Yes, we saw. We know. Who pushed him?"

He looked up at the summit again, reaching into the Force… but there was no answer written there, nor in the seething currents of light and dark. Only death. "I don't know. I tried to catch him… a Jedi."

Mace Windu's alarm was a blast of scouring wind in the Force. he stood again, tattered shreds of Dark fleeing in terror before him.

"DuCrion was with me this entire afternoon," Dooku stated, coolly, his limpid eyes never leaving the Korun master's face. "Do not make unfounded assumptions." He tilted his head to one side, lips pressed into a thin line. "Perhaps we should ask instead why Padawan Kenobi was observed to flee the scene of death just before help arrived."

Obi Wan's head jerked round at this accusation. His blood roared in his ears, a torrent of outrage welling up within. His hand went to his saber's hilt, begriming the gleaming silver with smears of red. Dooku merely regarded him with a cold and dissecting stare.

Mace Windu's hands were large, and powerful. They felt cool where they touched the Padawan's face, one to either side. His eyes were two bottomless pools, depths of wisdom. "Obi Wan, " he demanded, voice like the command of the Force, striking at a chord so deep that resistance melted into dread-filled surrender. "Are you responsible for this death?"

There was no untruth possible, and he intended none anyway. Flattening his mental shields, looking directly into those endless depths, he drew in a shaking breath. "No, Master Windu."

Excoriating light softened and withdrew. Mace Windu's voice rumbled something further, Dooku added a softly inflected remark, the waterfall tumbled endlessly onto shards of stone, splintering light into mist, forging and hammering without cease. Bruck Chun's lifeless corpse was respectfully pushed away; many of the brown-cloaked figures dispersed, cowls drawn over their heads.

BenTo Li appeared in his line of vision, not frowning. "Stars' end, boy."

"I tried to catch him. He got away."

"Come here, easy now." The healer shepherded him onto a large boulder, pushed him down onto it. "Not now, Mace. I'll contact you later. He's in no shape."

"We fought – he was powerful. I couldn't stop him."

"Shush, shush. Bant, get another gurney. Yes, now. For Force's sake, Padawan, I told you to _rest_ not two hours ago. You're incorrigible."

Everything hurt. And he was dead tired. "I'm sorry, Master Li." He slumped forward, wrapped his arms about his aching ribs, closed his eyes. The Force drained away, trickling into the hidden recesses of being, leaving him hollow and shivering.

To his surprise, the healer merely sat down beside him and laid a hand against the nape of his neck. A gentle warmth spread outward from this point, radiating down his spine and into his belly, a welcoming influx of soothing energy, a caress of the Living Force. The sounds and smells of the arboretum, the horrific memory of Bruck's mangled visage, the echoes of his earlier desperation, the ache of his injuries all faded into the ubiquitous roar of the waterfall. His eyelids drooped. Somewhere far away, Ben To Li chuckled quietly.

He didn't even notice Bant's eventual return, or make any vociferous objection to being trundled away again, like a pathetic invalid.

* * *

He woke, endless and dreamless hours later, to a gentle if persistent tugging on his short nerf-tail.

"Unghh." A hand swatted vaguely at the source of annoyance. "Go away, Bant."

The Force rippled with an amusement far too broad and rich to be Bant's. A familiar presence shone in the universal light, a bracing slap in the Living Force. Obi Wan rolled over, a smile already pulling at the corners of his mouth, though his eyelids were dreadfully heavy and would not quite open. "Master!"

The timbre of Qui Gon's deep voice chimed in the Force, too, an inaudible counterpoint to his words. "Sloth is a vice ill becoming a Jedi," the tall master advised him, his answering smile lurking just behind the words.

Obi Wan struggled to haul himself upright, and succeeded after some focused effort, squinting dourly at his surroundings and trying to piece together his blurry memory. "What ..what time is it? It's the middle of the night."

The lines around Qui Gon's eyes deepened. "It is precisely five minutes short of midnight. I arrived back on Coruscant many hours ago, and have been waiting since… but I did not think you would wish to miss the occasion entirely."

The Padawan blinked. Occasion? "I am glad you are back," he offered, sincerely, still a bit puzzled.

The Jedi master's eyes twinkled. "I believe you've lost track of days." He paused for dramatic effect, sweeping a hand through the air to indicate the small room in the healers' ward. "This is not a conventional way to celebrate one's fifteenth life day, but it suits you somehow."

Obi Wan's mouth popped open. "Oh." He grinned. "I forgot."

Qui Gon thrust three fingers into a belt pouch. "Fortunately, I have not. And I've brought you a gift, from Thesspar."

His apprentice raised his eyebrows. Gifts from Qui Gon could be tricky as Master Yoda's sense of humor. On the occasion of his thirteenth life-day, the gift of choice had been a _rock;_ on the following year, a taste of skydiving _sans_ any gravity-defying equipment. That particular gift had come _very _unexpectedly, and had been received with enthusiasm and gratitude verging on outright terror. Needless to say, he felt justified in a degree of apprehension. "A double-edged one?" he inquired, cautiously.

The Jedi master smiled enigmatically. "Very." And uncurled his fingers to reveal a small, shapely folding knife lying upon his open palm.

Obi Wan accepted it gravely, turning the polished handle over once or twice and then opening the blade with a flick of his wrist.

"Thesspari steel, forged a hundred times by hand. They are renowned for their artisanship. It won't break, unless you apply a saber blade to it."

Delighted, the young Jedi folded the exquisite blade back into its handle. "Thank you."

"That should be stowed inside your boot," Qui Gon advised. "You will find it comes in more useful than a 'saber in certain situations. Now that you are old enough not to cut yourself to pieces… though, given present circumstances, I am tempted to rethink that statement."

"I didn't disobey lightly," Obi Wan told him, earnestly. "The Force prompted me, and I listened to it. I did remember your words."

But Qui Gon raised a hand to silence him. "We have much to discuss tomorrow. But now, in the present moment – where your focus belongs -you have one minute left to celebrate. I suggest you make good use of it."

The Padawan's hand closed over the Thesspari knife. The image of Bruck Chun's mangled, lifeless face, and the shadow lurking at the clifftop, rose unbidden before his eyes, weighting the Force with long-suppressed grief. "I don't feel like celebrating, master," he said, quietly. "Is that a mistake?"

Qui Gon's smile softened to an inscrutable look, perhaps a sad one, perhaps a tender one. Obi Wan swallowed, hard.

"No," the Jedi master gently replied. "Not at all."

The cleaning droid outside the open doorway was too unsophisticated, or too single-mindedly absorbed in its task, to be scandalized by the spectacle of two Jedi locked in a long and wordless embrace. It merely applied an extra coat of polish to the floor and went about its quotidian business, taking no notice.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 9: Mourner**

* * *

Ben To Li pointed a long, gnarled finger at Qui Gon. "And I mean _quiet_ activity. I'm only releasing him out of a profound respect for your competency, Jinn."

The tall master raised an eyebrow. "You mean a profound respect for my patience," he corrected the healer. " Don't worry; I'll keep an eye on him."

"You would do better to keep a leash on him," Ben To snorted.

"I _am_ listening to this conversation," Obi Wan grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

But his elders only chuckled at him and kept walking.

Ben To insisted on having one last word before they departed from the Halls. He fixed the Padawan with a keen and authoritative eye. 'If you don't permit nature and the Force to do their work, we will have to resort to conventional treatment, which means _pharmaceuticals._ If you think you're sick now, wait till I have to pump you full of toxins to kill that bacterium."

The Padawan scowled. "I'll _rest, _ Master Li."

The healer waved a sardonic and dismissive hand, and retreated back into his own domain, long strides carrying him away at a brisk clip.

Qui Gon placed a hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "I believe Ben To is growing quite fond of you."

Obi Wan tugged his cloak closer about his shoulders and spared a sidelong glance at the entrance of the healers' ward. "An unbecoming attachment," he muttered, falling into step behind the Jedi master.

* * *

They avoided the Room of a Thousand Fountains, choosing to walk among the outdoor gardens instead, the strictly ordered geometry of the pathways in stark contrast to the organic riot of life within the arboretum.

"Very well," Qui Gon said, when they had reached the center of the ornamental labyrinth. "Now you can explain your complete disregard for Ben To's instructions."

Obi Wan sat beside him on a bench. "I was walking in the arboretum – "

"Instead of resting."

"I _was_ resting, master. I had to _move._ I can't mope about doing _nothing."_

Qui Gon sighed. "Of course you can't."

"Bruck Chun passed me by on one of the paths. And I felt a disturbance in the Force – it was deep, and compelling. I _did_ remember your words, but…"

"You followed the will of the Force."

"I did, master. I had a very bad feeling about it. I felt that he was going to keep an appointment… but there was danger. I dreamed, earlier that morning… a vision. And the Force warned me. So I ran after him, but when I arrived at the base of the falls, he had already made it to the top. Somebody was there, and pushed him over the edge." The Padawan hesitated, expression hardening. "I tried to save him, but I failed."

They watched the air traffic buzz overhead, the warm smog-laden breeze ruffle the neatly trimmed cones and spires of the towering hedges.

"Then I ran after the killer. I tried to catch him, but he was too powerful for me. And I barely escaped myself, in the end. If Master Dooku hadn't been nearby, I wonder if the murderer might have chased me down."

Qui Gon's expression was grim. "And who is to say he will not still attempt such a thing? I don't want you alone, anywhere, until this matter has been resolved."

His apprentice was indignant. "I don't require a _bodyguard!"_

"You have no choice. I'm far too attached."

The Padawan risked a fleeting smile. "I thought we had undertaken a disciplinary exercise in that regard."

Qui Gon braced his hands on his knees and leaned back, inhaling deeply. "I seem to have made very little progress. And now is not the time."

Obi Wan studied his hands. "Yes, master. And… there is something else."

"Ah. I thought as much. What horrific confession do you have to make?"

"Bruck… before he died… he was going to speak to you about something. I - since he cannot do so – I feel I should tell you instead."

The laugh lines around Qui Gon's eyes creased into deep valleys. The Force chimed softly. "You wish to honor the dead by championing a grudge against yourself? You never cease to amaze me."

The young Jedi's brows beetled together. "He _said_ his conscience was pricking him. Perhaps it was the will of the Force. I don't wish to deceive you, master."

The tall Jedi chuckled aloud. "Just accuse yourself and have done with it."

Obi Wan's shoulders rose, petulantly. "_Yes, _ master. ..When I was working in the Archives, I … I saw Master Dyas conducting research at one of the data terminals. When he left, I opened his files."

Qui Gon turned to face him, surprised. "You hacked into his research records? After he had closed them?"

The Padawan shifted uncomfortably. "The Force guided me."

"That is a serious breach, Obi Wan."

"I know, master." The young Jedi tensed. "But before I could read their contents, Bruck interfered. I hid, and he looked at the files instead. Master Dyas caught him at it, too."

The Jedi master sucked in a sharp breath. "That might have been you."

"He wouldn't tell me what he had seen. And he promised to speak to you about my actions. But now… I wonder…"

They sat in silence, wondering the same thing, for a long stretch of time.

Qui Gon stood first. "I need to speak to Tahl. You can study in the Archives ; they should be busy this time of day, and I'll make sure Madame Nu has an eye out."

"Master, I don't think such _paranoia_ is necessary."

"I do," Qui Gon countered, and led the way back through the garden maze, his apprentice in tow.

* * *

"And how did your exercise in detachment go?' Tahl asked archly, when he entered.

Qui Gon grimaced. "I still have much to learn." He crossed the chamber, sank to the floor beside her meditation pad.

Tahl's strong hands kneaded at his shoulders, soothed the taut muscles beneath the thick layers of cloth. "And how fares your favorite brat?"

He sighed, leaning backward into her touch. "He's ill, though he won't admit it. BenTo thinks he contracted a bacterial infection on Terruvai – normally not dangerous, except that he's put numerous strains on his system since and allowed it to flourish and spread through his bloodstream. Force healing helps, but the strain is virulent. We may be grounded for a while."

Her hands stopped their motion. "In the Temple, where a murderer roams free," she observed wryly. "How restful."

"Besides chasing headlong after experienced, Force-sensitive killers and making himself seriouslyill, my favorite brat has also hacked into the Sentinels' private research files."

"_What?"_

"You heard me. Apparently he tampered with a data terminal in the Archives after Syfo Dyas had finished using it. Because the Force prompted him to do so."

Tahl's exhalation was a warm caress on the back of his neck. "Force help us all. I _do_ have a rival. And you're alarmed, Qui. What did he see?"

"Nothing. He was interrupted by Bruck Chun, who read the open files and was discovered in flagrante by Syfo Dyas himself. I presume Obi Wan was discreet…but I wonder."

Tahl's hands tightened, gripping his shoulders firmly. "Chun was killed after seeing those files. Have you mentioned this to the Council?"

He closed his eyes, seeking the steady currents of the Living Force, the warm eddies that flowed about Tahl's presence always, golden effulgence, scented like exotic spice. "Not yet," he replied, after a moment. "The Sentinels have been assigned to hunt down the killer. And my objectivity would be called into question. The Council would undoubtedly forbid further involvement."

"So you intend to proceed without asking permission."

"That is one solution, is it not?"

Her silence was eloquent. Qui Gon raised his hands, covered her delicate ones with his calloused fingers. The Force ebbed and flowed between them, a gentle tide.

"I'll help you," she promised.

"You need not. My defiance is my own."

"Then it is mine, as well."

The future was dark with portent, but they stood fast within the still center of the present moment, an alliance compacted of mutual devotion and trembling, uncertain intuition.

* * *

A small cough roused Obi Wan from an unintentional doze. He started awake, catching the holoreader before it slipped off his lap onto the marble floor. The study alcove in the Archives was quiet, light-drenched, and full of stacked 'pads and the unmistakable presence of Yan Dooku.

The elegant master seated himself in the opposite chair, crossing one booted leg over the other knee, steepling his fingers contemplatively. "You have an unusual method of seeking knowledge," he observed, ironically.

Obi Wan set the reader aside and straightened, hands deliberately relaxing upon the chair's wide armrests, chin coming up in polite challenge. "Master Seva said _the truest repose is found in wisdom's arms."_

"Indeed?" One silvered brow twitched upward. "Another sage has written that _wisdom is a cruel mistress, and a fickle lover."_

The young Jedi frowned a little at this. "I am not familiar with that saying."

"There is a great deal you are not familiar with." Dooku flicked a speck of lint off his dark trousers. "Though I see you are eager to cram that head of yours with every available scrap of learning. The galaxy is a very large place, Padawan. Perhaps your curiosity ought to moderate its ambition somewhat."

Obi Wan's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head sideways a trifle. "My curiosity is driven by the demands of conscience."

But Dooku only chuckled at this, a humorless cascade of musical notes, well-contained. His thin lips curved in the caricature of a smile. "Then your conscience is likely enough to get you killed. For instance, chasing headlong after a murderer? Foolish."

"Somebody had to apprehend him! Had I not –"

"Had you been anywhere but this Temple, your actions might easily have been misconstrued. I assure you, a Shadow caught in the same awkward circumstances would have severely compromised his position. Your espionage techniques would be enough to merit immediate execution on any number of systems. A word to the _wise_… or in this case, the not yet wise."

A deep breath. The Padawan watched the inscrutable Jedi master carefully. "You know who it was."

Dooku leaned forward, all pretense at softness fleeing. "If I did, that would still be a matter for the Sentinels and the Council. Not you. Learn your place, young one. Or you may find yourself acquiring wisdom the hard way. I personally should very much like to see you reach maturity - and reckless action is a dangerous impediment to that happy outcome, as is prurience."

Angry, he made a polite half bow. "I should by no means wish to choose justice over self-preservation."

Dooku was not amused. "Clever. But let us call this your second lesson in Makashi: self-preservation is essential to victory. A dead man is no use to the Order or the galaxy." He stood, exhaling softly, almost a regretful sigh. "I am sorry to distract you from your… studies."

When he had gone, the small alcove seemed to ring with a strange emptiness, as though the sunbeams themselves had been hollowed out and left pendant in the cool air.

* * *

"Come in, young one, hhmmph. Sit, sit."

"Thank you, master. I –"

"_Sit,"_ Yoda snorted, waving his cane at a meditation cushion. "Now. My counsel you come seeking. Regarding Bruck Chun?"

Obi Wan watched the ancient master pace fretfully over the worn floor of his private chambers, the frayed edge of his robe dragging through the dust behind him, leaving a sinuous trail in its wake, a flowing line that crossed and re-crossed itself, an endless knot. Yoda had a well-known dislike for cleaning droids. "Bruck and I were rivals of a sort."

"Know this I do. Believed that resolved your disputes were, long ago."

"Yes, master, but … well. He never much liked me."

"Or you him. Unimportant are personal feelings. Right conduct, honorable words, sometimes sufficient are. Compassion for all beings must a Jedi have. Not _like."_

The Padawan wondered whether there were some member of the Order who habitually irritated Master Yoda… and then he wondered whether there were any Jedi alive who did _not _ occasionally annoy the infamously short-tempered Grand Master. It depended on one's perspective, he supposed, like so many other of life's conundrums.

"There is nothing more I can do for or about Bruck."

Yoda ceased his peregrinations, leaned on his squat stave. "No. Returned to the Force is he. Elsewhere, your focus must be."

"Yes, master." Obi Wan knotted his fingers together, then untwisted them again. "He was killed by another Jedi."

Yoda sighed, and returned to his pacing. There was a heaviness in his hunched shoulders, a droop in his pointed ears. Obi Wan noticed that the ancient one's hair was thinning, silver-white, eroded by time and worry. The old master was _frail, aging._ He stirred, recalling the pain on Qui Gon's face after he had spoken to Xanatos.

"Sorry I am, that this has happened," Yoda grumbled. "Tragedy."

That was all. No miraculous solution, no words of wisdom to eradicate the grief. Obi Wan remembered to exhale. "Yes, master. I would like to… assist in the investigation."

The gimer stick clacked hard against the dusty floor. "No. Ill are you. And not your place, Padawan. Limits, must you recognize. Interfere, you must not. Track down the killer, the Sentinels will."

He did not like the answer. "Master," he pressed on, boldly, "I have a bad feeling about that."

Yoda's gimlet eyes squinted at him, twin slits hiding bright green fire behind their narrowed curves. The bad feeling magnified to full blown dread. Obi Wan dropped his gaze.

"Hhmmmmmph," the Grand Master rumbled deep in his throat. "Seek to make amends with the dead, do you, Obi Wan? When forgiveness you will not grant to the living? Disappointed I am. Coward's path you have chosen."

What? His head snapped up again. "What do you mean?" he demanded, stricken.

"Bruck Chun, at peace in the Force is. Xanatos DuCrion here, among the living is, suing for your pardon. Face what is yours in the present. Not what is of the past."

Silence.

"Make not that face at me, youngling. Right I am. Know this you do or sulk you would not." He pointed a clawed finger at the Padawan. "Ask not for my counsel if ignore it, you will."

"No, master, I am grateful. I will meditate on your words."

The ancient troll was placated. "Good," he harrumphed. "Stubborn are you. Like Qui Gon. Vexing."

"I'm truly sorry, master."

Yoda stumped along on his cane, escorting his visitor to the door. "Welcome always to vex me, you are, Obi Wan," was his gruff farewell.

* * *

"Ready?"

Obi Wan lifted the voluminous cowl of his cloak over his head, let the heavy fabric drape into place, shrouding his face behind the anonymous earth-toned cloth. The cloak was fastened in front, too, a concession to the formality of the occasion, a reminder to _contain_ his mourning beneath a proper mantle of dignity. "I'm ready, master."

Qui Gon's hand guided him down the shallow steps, along the tiered stone benches surrounding the pyre in the chamber's center. He could see little but the sweep of others' cloaks against boot heels, brown and the occasional black, all woven of the same expensive fiber, many of them worn and fraying from years of continual wear. The Jedi master steered him to the end of a curving row, so that he was buttressed on one side by a stone support pillar, on the other by Qui Gon's own sturdy shoulder. Other Jedi filed in, quietly, until the throng filled the Force, a chorus of light, a convocation of stars descended to witness the immolation.

Bruck had been late to grow; his life snuffed out at barely fourteen standard years, his pale body hardly seemed substantial enough to fill the stone slab of the pyre. A veil covered his mutilated visage; white hair, bleached like sun-scoured bones, was visible above. His cream tunics glimmered in the dim light, bright against the stacked _haffa_ wood, its sweet scent already pervading the warm air. There was no saber to be destroyed with the body, for Bruck had never been deemed worthy of apprenticeship; his path had been humbler, and should have been safer.

Obi Wan felt a flicker of some unfamiliar emotion from Qui Gon, and glanced sideways at his mentor, but the Jedi master's face was shrouded beneath the deep hood. He shifted sideways instead, until his shoulder pressed into the tall man's arm, a mute reassurance. An answering breath of gratitude wafted across their bond. He folded hands into opposite sleeves and waited.

The familiar words of the funeral rite rang in the present, and in memory. The witnesses were exhorted to remember their own mortality, the humility of death, the inconsequence of the self. They were reminded also, paradoxically, that they were not gross matter but luminous beings; that there was no death, only the Force. Because Bruck was so young, words from the ancient _Praeceptium_ were used as solemn epitaph:

_I have no home, no mother or father. I am a child of the Force, and in death I make my homecoming, a return to my parentage._

Flames eagerly consumed the kindling, the oil-drenched corpse. Flesh crumbled into black ash and fire, symbol of spirit. The chamber was silent. Shadows danced upon the domed ceiling; phantoms rose in the coiling smoke and ascended into Coruscant's frenetic skies. And Obi Wan bid a final farewell to a boy whom he had never liked, but with whom he had grown since earliest childhood, and who was, after all, counted his brother in the Force. The consuming fire burned impurities away, transforming grief into compassion, and then into acceptance.

When the ceremony had ended, and the crumbling vestiges of Bruck's memory were cooling upon the blackened pyre, he knew that he would meet Xanatos DuCrion the next day, and seek another kind of peace.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 10: Strategist**

* * *

"Padawan."

"I'm sorry, master." Obi Wan flushed, unable to suppress the outward signs of mortification at having nodded off during morning meditation.

Qui Gon patted him on the knee. "We will not persevere in a fruitless exercise," the Jedi master decided. "I have much to accomplish, and you are going back to bed."

"But I just rose an hour ago." The Padawan ran two hands through his hair, as though hoping the bristled riotousness of his short crop would somehow translate into physical energy.

Qui Gon rose in one fluid motion, while his apprentice remained wearily kneeling. He pressed his palm against the boy's clammy forehead. "Hm. You can rest here, or we can incarcerate you in the healers' ward again."

Obi Wan made it back to his feet. Slowly. "I'm going back to bed," he muttered.

* * *

Mace lost the first prolonged match of the morning.

"Congratulations," he told Qui Gon, "I thank you for the lesson."

"And you wish to continue – say, best two out of three?" his opponent added, dryly.

The Korun master passed a powerful hand over his shaven scalp. "I am distracted," he admitted. "Bruck Chun's death was a serious blow. A murder inside the Temple is something I have difficulty accepting."

Qui Gon clipped his saber to his belt. "You are not the only one, my friend."

They strolled slowly toward the exit, to collect their discarded cloaks and tunics. "The local Coruscanti police respect our independence, of course; but I fear that if the Sentinels do not present the villain to the Council for judgment soon, the Senate oversight committee will demand outside involvement."

"It's an internal affair of the Order," Qui Gon objected.

"Not where a non-apprenticed minor is involved. We merely have physical and legal custody until they take solemn vows. Technically, the Republic _can_ claim jurisdiction. I'll meet with a representative and the Chancellor later today."

"Better you than me," his friend grunted. He laid a hand on Mace's shoulder. "You are far more deserving than I of a seat on the Council."

"You old gundark," Mace chuckled forlornly, as they made for the shower rooms.

* * *

Tahl pulled the abandoned datareader across the table's smooth surface and tapped the screen into life. "Ah. _History of Telosian Civil Conflicts._ And… even better: _Advanced Ethical Disputations, with Commentary by Junn Ka'aal._ I thought your Padawan was on leave from academic studies?"

"That," Qui Gon interjected, setting the tea pot down in the table's exact center, "Is Obi Wan's idea of light recreational reading."

"Force help you." Tahl poured the steaming liquid into two bowls and handed one to him. "Some might say that boy needs to get out more."

"Oh, if you asked him I'm sure he would assure you that he'd much rather be in the _dojo, _ thank you for your concern, Master Uvain."

They shared a soundless moment of laughter, savoring the first hot sips of tea.

Tahl set her bowl down first. "I, by contrast, have willingly forgone all forms of recreation these last two days, and I have at last the glimmer of an answer."

Qui Gon leaned back, curious. "You've managed to access the Sentinels' records?"

She made a face. "Ha. And you were elevated to the Council. No, even I have my limits. But rather than wasting time on the obvious, I made other inquiries. The transport requisitions records were most informative."

Qui Gon raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"

Tahl drew out the suspense, relishing her next sip of tea with meditative slowness. "Yes," she said, at last. "Syfo-Dyas has an airspeeder informally reserved for his personal use – one not marked with a Temple transponder code, fast and maneuverable. He's taken it out into the city with alarming regularity. He has in fact, requested this same vehicle again this very afternoon."

"He might be visiting a favorite restaurant," Qui Gon suggested, blandly.

Tahl tapped one finger against the delicate rim of her tea bowl. "Or a mistress," she hypothesized, idly.

"What did you do about it?"

She smiled, her generous lips curving gently upward. "I merely placed a micro-tracer beneath the intakes on the aforesaid vehicle. It's up to _you_ to do something about it."

He solemnly accepted the tiny tracing beacon she dropped into his palm. "Where did you obtain this? I've never seen one so small."

Tahl folded her hands in her lap. "Ban Yaro – he's a very clever lad, did you know?- invented it for the Sentinels' use, but apparently Syfo Dyas scoffed at it. You know the old curmudgeon, he's positively contemptuous of technological innovations: the Force and only the Force, no repulsor-lifts or indoor plumbing for him."

"Don't let old Yoda hear you discourse in that vein, or the entire Temple will be summarily purged of the decadent comforts of civilization."

They shared another smirk, and Qui Gon tucked the cunning device inside his tunic. .

"Who's making the Temple uncivilized?" a slightly rasping voice inquired, somewhat confusedly, as its distinctly lackluster owner trudged blearily out of the apartment's second bedroom.

"How are you, Padawan?" Tahl slid sideways, to accommodate the newcomer at the small table.

"I'm very well," the young Jedi replied tonelessly, sinking down beside her.

One of her brows curved upward, doubtfully. "It shows. Qui, pour some more tea. I think your pathetic life form is drooping."

Qui Gon peered at the disconsolate bundle of rumpled cloak and disorderly hair, and pressed his lips together. "Obi Wan."

His apprentice turned glassy eyes upward. "Master? I'm fine."

"Hm." Qui Gon's eyes narrowed in swift appraisal, and he supplied the young Jedi with a brimming cup. "I may have an engagement in the city this afternoon. I would prefer that you remain in quarters during my absence."

The Padawan frowned into the amber depths of his tea bowl for several seconds, then managed a growling, "Yes, master."

"However," the tall Jedi continued, dryly, "Since I am obliged to keep company with you over the next few days, I have commissioned a mutual acquaintance to take you out for a walk later."

Obi Wan downed half the bitter tea in one long draught, and offered his mentor a tight, facetious smile. "Master Li, I suppose."

"Ben To is a worthy man and undeserving of such punishment. I've relegated the dubious honor to Knight Spruu, who is too inexperienced to know any better."

"Oh." The Padawan perked up at the mention of the Twi'Lek Jedi. "Well then."

Qui Gon collected the emptied tea things, and pointed a stern finger at his student. "A walk. Not running the Temple perimeter. Not swimming in the artificial river. _Not_ sparring. Do not roll your eyes at me, Padawan, or your _little outing _will be a one way pilgrimage to BenTo's dungeon."

Obi Wan shoved his hands into opposite sleeves with a rebellious asperity, but managed to keep his expression nominally polite. Tahl covered her mouth with one hand and coughed delicately, eyes twinkling with a golden light.

Qui Gon raised his eyebrows in clear expectation.

"…Yes, master," Obi Wan sighed.

* * *

The Temple transport center was ruled with an iron fist. Or to be more accurate, a compressed plastoid and tritanium alloy fist.

"I am sorry, master Jinn, all available light air speeders are presently checked out or under maintenance," the requisitions droid burbled, supremely unsympathetic to the urgency of the situation. "Larger vehicles are available."

"I'll take one of the speeders lined up for maintenance," the Jedi master told it, brusquely.

The droid fidgeted, hovering fussily in place. "It is inadvisable to take out a machine in less than optimal condition – we maintain our fleet according to recommended manufacturer's specifications, and none of the vehicles currently in the maintenance docking bay on level four –"

"Thank you." Qui Gon was out the bay doors and on his way to level four before the cybernetic poltroon could elaborate any further.

Its counterpart was no improvement. "I am sorry, master Jinn, but regulations forbid me to release any of the vehicles without a full maintenance clearance. This is a repair deck; speeders and shuttles available for use are located in the south hangar docking bay, on level-"

"That one will do," Qui Gon decided, indicating a two-seater air car being serviced by a tech bot nearby.

"That vehicle is currently scheduled for a routine systems tune up, and a fuel cell upgrade."

Qui Gon cocked his head to one side, feeling the Living Force trickle sluggishly in this inane realm of circuits and metal. He waved a hand before the droid's optic plates. "That vehicle is available. You are happy to release it to me."

Twitching slightly, the imbecilic droid proffered the sign-out pad, and Qui Gon pressed his thumb to the screen with grim punctilio. Most Jedi would have issued a spluttering objection, to the effect that it was impossible to use mind influence on a droid – but Qui Gon Jinn had never been one to care what abstract rules theoreticians drew up on the Force's behalf. He shooed the tech bot out of the way with a burning glance and waved the various tools scattered beneath the ship's chassis into a far corner. A brief perusal of the console confirmed that the speeder was functional enough for his purposes; a moment laster he blasted out of the open bay doors in a whirl of brown cloak and gleaming chromium.

* * *

"Are you sure, my little friend? I've seen you looking more hearty and hale." Jedi Knight Feld Spruu paused mid-stride, leaning forward solicitously.

Obi Wan shook his head. "I'm fine. Besides, we haven't finished our conversation."

The blue-complected Twi"Lek threw up his hands in mock despair. "Captive audience to a sophist. The Force is testing me, I think." They continued upon their way, at the inception of their third meandering lap through the Temple's relatively unused lower levels, the more ancient portions of the structure which now served as basements and arcane underlevels to the modern additions above. History and tradition were solidified at the bottom of the pyramid, compressed by the weight of centuries into a rarefied vintage, a heady thickening of the Unifying Force. It put Obi Wan in a speculative and garrulous mood, a synthesis of opposites his companion found oddly charming.

"But what do you think, truly? Junn Ka'aal says that the Dark can never fully consume the _core_ of a being; that there must remain a seed of light, which is the root of existence and free will. And because of this, redemption is possible even for the most hopelessly enslaved, the most depraved servant of evil. It's an extreme position."

"Oh, I don't commit to extreme positions," Feld replied lightly. "Master Ka'aal was a revered teacher, but that sounds a bit heretical to me. We all know that one fallen to the Dark is utterly destroyed."

The Padawan mulled this over as they traced their way through the dimmed corridors, the echoing passages, moving at a brisk pace. Feld wryly observed that it was _he_ who was being taken for a walk, and that his young acquaintance had made an odd choice of surroundings for his afternoon stroll; but the company was pleasant and he was not of a temperament to fret overmuch about trifles.

"That _is_ the doctrine; yet there are historical examples of fallen Jedi who turned back to the Light before their death. It's a paradox."

This elicited an amicable groan. "What does Master Jinn say upon this topic?" Feld asked.

The Padawan's dimples made a brief appearance "He says, and I quote, _the Living Force does not give a womprat's ass what rules the philosophers have drawn up for it, Obi Wan; its ways are mysterious, and it is your privilege to discern and serve that purpose rather than brooding over conceptual niceties."_

"Very characteristic," the Twi'Lek observed.

Obi Wan raised an eyebrow. "Master Jinn has a great affinity for the Living Force, particularly when he is kept awake by pestering questions after a harrowing mission."

"Manifestly, my friend. What answer did you make to this declaration of his, if I may ask? For I know that surely you had something to say in reply."

"Oh… yes. Well. I forget. But it resulted in a great deal of extra meditation and some unpleasant chores."

Feld chuckled aloud. "I think I cannot wait to take a Padawan of my own, " he decided.

"I shall warn the crechelings," his friend smiled. "And I think I may ask Master what he thinks again – on some other occasion, when he is sufficiently rested."

"Speaking of which," Feld interposed, "When shall we have the pleasure of sparring again?"

The Padawan's shoulders slumped. "Never, if Master Li has his way. But I'll do my best to thwart him… soon. I promise."

Feld rewarded this piece of brazen defiance with a slap on the back. "That's the spirit. May you recover quickly, so I can wallop you in good conscience."

They grinned, and continued on their way. Around the next turn, however, they met an unexpected roadblock: Master Yan Dooku striding along the passageway, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he approached.

The two younger Jedi bowed. Dooku's eyebrows rose. "This is a pleasant surprise. In what mischief are you two gentlemen engaged?"

Feld Spruu tossed both lekku behind his broad shoulders, folded his hands respectfully. "Philosophical disputation. It has been most entertaining."

"Indeed." The silver-haired master studied Obi Wan curiously. "I believe I should like an opportunity to converse with Padawan Kenobi myself, if you can spare him, Knight Spruu."

Feld glanced down at his companion, headtails twitching slightly in alarm.

But the young Jedi was not intimidated. "As you wish, master. I would be honored."

Dooku dismissed Feld with an elegant gesture of one hand, and they watched him make his formal bow and retreat down the passage, casting one last hesitant look at Obi Wan before he turned the near corner.

Dooku clasped his hands behind his back, and looked down upon the Padawan with piercing grey eyes. "Now that I've indulged your little request to meet you here, you may explain yourself."

Obi Wan inclined his head. "Thank you, master. I… I wish to speak to Xanatos DuCrion again. With your permission."

Seldom was Yan Dooku caught off guard. His hand brushed against his saber hilt, as though reorienting itself to some fundamental axis, a shifting line of balance in the Force. "You astonish me, " he drawled. "I take it Qui Gon knows nothing of this?"

The boy colored a vivid crimson but stood fast. "This is something I must do. And Master Jinn has not forbidden it."

"Hm." The Sentinel almost smiled, his sharp gaze edged with ironic amusement. "Remarkable." He sized up the situation for a few moments, then made a swift determination. "Very well; such boldness must not be allowed to run to waste. I shall take you to see him."

"Thank you," Obi Wan bowed, and followed Dooku in the opposite direction, deep into the ancient sublevels of the Temple.

* * *

The tracing beacon blipped away insistently, guiding Qui Gon through the tangled labyrinth of Coruscant's industrial sector. He skimmed along the rooftops of derelict factories, vast manufacturing yards, chasms and abysses in which the relics of past endeavors lay half-buried, rotting metallic corpses partially exhumed and left to decay through the centuries. Power generators and smoke-belching smelting furnaces sent mephitic columns of black and grey coiling into the heavy skies. Machinery groaned and clanked; thousands upon thousands of automated workers and their sentient supervisors milled about on scaffolding and hover barges.

The signal intensified near an abandoned shipyard district. He dropped lower, settled the light speeder on the roof of a decrepit warehouse. Dark ruins rose on all sides, forming canyons and valleys in which darkness lurked like a nameless sludge. He peered over the edge of the nearest, into the black and cavernous depths. The remnants of an old maglev system glinted dully below; beyond the broken line of railing, only the dim flicker of motion could be sensed. Rumor spoke of duracrete slugs grown to nightmarish proportions; of mynock colonies in the hundreds of thousands; of other horrors dwelling on the city's crumbling bottom layers like worms and beetles living amongst a forest's mulch. He remembered a particular mission with Dooku, long ago when the redoubtable master had been much younger and Qui Gon nothing but a callow youth…. And then he pushed the recollection out of his mind. It was best not to dwell on the past.

A sailing leap carried him across the chasm and onto the next roof, and a few stealthy minutes later he found himself crouched behind a support column on the wrecked upper floor of an ancient factory. Syfo-Dyas' speeder sat nearby, pilotless, the drives still cooling, rippling the cool air into a textured mirage. There was no sign of the Shadow, nor any indication what his business in the Underlevels might be.

Exhaling sharply, Qui Gon reached into the Force, seeking for the mysterious Jedi master in its invisible currents. But he found nothing; if the Sentinel had passed here, he had been shielding, slipping through the Living Force as lightly as a water bug skittering over the surface of a placid pool, disturbing nothing, leaving no trace. Frowning, he strengthened his own shields, blended with the universal, indistinct currents of life and memory, and set out to reconnoiter the area.

He had no inkling what question he ought to be asking, but a firm certainty that somewhere here, an uncomfortable answer lay in ambush.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 11: Rebel**

* * *

"I must give due warning: you are unlikely to find the surroundings here… pleasant."

Obi Wan stopped in his tracks, the first stirrings of a very peculiar bad feeling providing adamant confirmation of Dooku's words. "I… what's.. the Force is _wrong_ here." He tried a centering breath, but the sensation of slow suffocation and dizzying lack of balance did not abate.

The Jedi master smiled humorlessly. "DuCrion's present accommodations are of necessity somewhat _secure._ This particular wing is constructed of thanatosine granite." When the Padawan showed no sign of comprehension, he issued a cursory explanation. "Omphalos minerals are considered Force conduits; this particular substance is thought to _disrupt_ the Force in its near vicinity."

The young Jedi 's lip curled. "It can..diminish the Force?"

"A crude concept, but sufficient for practical purposes. This level once contained _prisoners_ of a powerful nature. That time is long gone, of course… but the Shadows do occasionally still find such provisions useful."

Obi Wan nodded, quashing the incipient nausea this revelation and its very physical manifestation brought on. He reached for the Force, but found it scattered, elusive, as though he were grasping at floating dust motes or holding sea foam in his cupped hands. The sudden voiding of the universe, the evisceration of the world into a hollow puppet-show of sounds and colors, left him reeling. Dooku released an impatient sigh and thrust one strong hand beneath his elbow as they descended a broad stairway.

"Has Qui Gon taught you nothing?" he snorted. "Here, boy, anchor yourself." He came to a halt. "Clearly, there are some glaring lacunae in your training. There are …_ways,_ young Padawan, by which a Jedi might be deprived of the Force –at least temporarily. You should know what to do."

The bad feeling erupted into hot magmaic dread, but Obi Wan merely thrust his hand into his tunic's pocket and found the precious river stone Qui Gon had given him years ago. He rolled the tiny object between his fingers, feeling it warm to the touch, respond to his living presence. The Force flowed gently between them, a tiny closed circuit, a steady current of comfort. Some of the vertigo passed. Although he still had the distinct sensation of being isolated, a lonely island in an abysmal void.

"I'm ready, Master Dooku. I can go on."

The silver haired Jedi frowned over him for a few moments, unconvinced, but in the end he shrugged nonchalantly and led the way to the base of the stairs, where a single door was set in a blank wall of rough-hewn stone. "Here we are. Have a care, Kenobi – this isn't some game in the crèche."

He swallowed, his skin prickling unbearably for want of the Force; he suffered the illusion of being coated in slime, in turgid mud, of drowning in nothingness.

The door slid open, and Dooku stood aside. "I shall wait here."

* * *

There was only one other ship in the vicinity – a light shuttle, spaceworthy, and still warm to the touch. Qui Gon reached through the Force, straining for any sign of the Sentinel, of another sensitive in the area. A wavering note of warning seemed to underpin the complex harmonies in the universal energy; nothing imminent, nothing severe. He took a few more paces forward, slipped beneath the strange ship's hull.

If Syfo Dyas had a contact – an informant? A conspirator? Another agent, perhaps from a principality hhostile to the republic, or some neutral or unincorporated world beyond the rims? – then this ship would likely be the only link he would ever find. The engine housings were well-shielded. Qui Gon trailed experienced fingers along the length of the chassis, beneath the starboard dampers, until he found the tell-tale seam in the triple reinforced hull. Another quick scan of his surroundings; as of yet, he was undetected.

He pried open the access hatch with a quick nudge of the Force; there, beneath the protective panel, were the diagnostics for the drives. He slipped a compact knife from his left boot; after all, some things were too delicate for saber work. Carefully wedging the blade between the circuit box and its moorings, he gently extricated the sensor unit. The loss would not be noted until the ship went in for maintenance or encountered difficulties; and a talented hack could gleam much information from the circuits contained within the small object. Qui Gon slipped it into a belt pouch and cautiously shut the outer panel again.

He needed to show Obi Wan that particular saboteur's trick; he made a mental note to run his Padawan through a complete course in underhanded spacer's lore as soon as opportunity presented itself. He knew one or two people who might be convinced to…

A flickering disturbance in the Force tipped him off; he was dashing for cover before the echoes of approaching footsteps even reached the abandoned hangar.

* * *

The cell – for it was a cell, there could be no euphemistic veiling of that stark fact – was cold, the Force a faint stirring beneath his breath, nothing more. In the absence of its plenitude, the tiny space seemed a fathomless pit, and the man seated opposite the door, perched as it were upon the narrow shelf of a cot, seemed distant as a far-flung constellation, a celestial curiosity seen through a magnifying lens.

Xanatos Du Crion's hair fell lank about his haggard face. His knees were drawn up, thrusting thin and jagged to either side of his bowed head, twin pillars guarding his hunched form. They drooped, falling down into meditation posture, even as the gaunt face was raised to greet the newcomer.

"Kenobi," the former Jedi said, harshly. "This is unexpected. Did they send you back to comfort me in my affliction or are all Qui Gon's Padawans to be locked up here for safekeeping?"

Obi Wan crossed the infinite emptiness of the chamber on leaden legs. The Force was… gone. His skin prickled with sweat, crawled with absence of _life._ "Xanatos," he said, taking up a position a mere arm's length away from the… prisoner. "I did not speak justly to you last time we met. I have come to make amends." He could swear there was no air at all in the dank room, but his chest continued to labor, a bellows heaving in shuddering lungfuls of vitality, so he supposed there must be some oxygen. But it was strange not to _feel_ it.

Xanatos's lips twisted into a sympathetic curve. "It takes some getting used to." He waved a regal hand. "Sit. Enjoy my hospitality. You did before."

_Foul traitor. Murderer. _ The thoughts were mere inward sounds, signifying nothing, carrying no import into the plenum. He blinked, realizing that his very mind was enclosed in the same blankness, the same flat insignificance of this place. Obi Wan shook his head. "I'll stand."

"Suit yourself, little brother."

"I am not your brother."

The dark haired man laughed, a grimacing wheeze. "You already said that. I thought you were here to make amends."

"I wish to apologize for my words to you. They were unbecoming, and harsh. I will listen to what you have to say now."

Xanatos leaned back against the hard wall, the thanatosine-flecked stone. "Dooku wants me to take up a life of poverty and contemplation," he smiled wanly. "_Penance. _ What do you think of that?"

Obi Wan frowned. "It seems right. You have done much evil. You've embraced the Dark."

Xanatos chuckled, a hollow rasping sound, leaving no ripple in the dessicated Force. "So have you, Kenobi. You just don't know it yet."

"What do you mean?"

"The Order…. Have you ever considered the corruption of the Republic? The Senate? And the Jedi serve these two rotting, filthy mockeries of light. You're oath sworn to perpetuate Darkness, little one. What do you think of that?"

"I'm not swayed by your ravings. Qui Gon taught you better than that."

"Did he?" Xanatos' blue eyes were rimmed in red, twin sapphires mired in pools of blood. Deep shadows ringed his eyes, painted his cheekbones. "He taught me the same lies he teaches you. Call them better if you will – children do not like the ugly truth about life revealed. I understand."

"I'm nearly done listening. What did you want from me?'

An alarming change came over the cadaverous young man. He leaned forward abruptly, a lunging motion that set the Padawan skittering back a pace. "Your friendship."

Without the Force, there was no clear intention behind these words, no bright corona of thought and emotion to give them context. The syllables fell out of the chill air, brittle hailstones of sound, devoid of real meaning. Obi Wan scowled. "I am not your brother, nor your friend. But… I will _help_ you, if you need help." And without the Force, he did not know whence that promise sprang. It had welled up from his heart before his mind could interfere, and now he stood appalled at his own audacity.

Xanatos leered at him, hungry. "They want me to give over Offworld's assets and confidential files to the Order. Before I become a hermit."

Offworld. Phindar. Arbor Foundation. A net of conspiracy and power and connections, a veritable web of intersecting malice and sedition. Answers to many questions. "They are keeping you here until you agree." It was not the Force which whispered this realization in his ear; it was bleak intuition, the grinding wheels of reason, of experience. The Sentinels had brought Xanatos here to break his will.

"The Order is as corrupt as the Republic. Offworld is mine. If I can't have it, none shall. Help me."

"I… I don't _understand." _ Xanatos was a liar and a murderer. He _deserved_ all that he suffered; he had fashioned his destiny with his own hands.

The prisoner scrubbed two hands over his face. "Help me," he pleaded. " I won't yield over Offworld's records, or its wealth. I will die first, in the Dark. If there is a Light somewhere to serve, it isn't here. It isn't with the Order any longer."

"It is!" Obi Wan objected. "You must have felt it when you returned to the Temple. The Force is _strong _ and _powerful_ here."

A pair of despairing eyes roamed idly over him, their surfaces glazed with cynicism and regret. "If you feel Light here, Obi Wan, it is only that which you carry with you. Someday you'll wake up and realize that. I did."

"I am _not_ you." He took a step backward, toward the door, yearning to escape.

"Help me," Xanaots repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "You're my only hope."

Obi Wan's back hit the hard panel of the door, and it slid open at the pressure, sending him stumbling inelegantly into Yan Dooku's supporting grip.

The Shadow sealed the heavy barrier with a flick of his wrist, held the Padawan hard about the upper arms. "Easy, boy. Did you make any progress?"

Here, in the ringing hollowness of the thanatosine, there was no need to shield. They were all alone, specks of trembling life in a sea of emptiness, stars shining without radiance in the endless void. "No, master," he lied, flatly. Even Dooku's penetrating stare did not pierce the choking, clotting Absence. "Please," he added. "I need to go back – up. To the Temple."

The Shadow was not without pity. His hard gaze softened a trifle, perhaps momentarily imagining a gangly and youthful Qui Gon; perhaps only seeming to. "Breathe, foolish child. Come, I'll lead you."

Obi Wan leaned heavily on Dooku's wiry, muscular arm as the elder Jedi guided him back up the the higher levels, where the stifling effect of the rare mineral was no longer to be felt. He made a shaking bow. "Thank you, Master Dooku."

The silver haired Jedi dismissed him with a small gesture. "Until next time." And strode away on his own mysterious business, his bent saber hilt slapping rhythmically against his thigh as he dwindled away into a shocked memory.

The Force rushed back in, floodwaters crashing through a dam, until the young Padawan was dizzy with it. He leaned on the nearest wall, close to tears of relief, teeth chattering. He could _feel_ the world again, touch it, see it, belong in it. He was no longer undead, a walking corpse. It occurred to him that Xanatos DuCrion had been in that cell for days. A week. A spark of admiration kindled within him, and a swell of pity.

He noted, as an abstract afterthought, that he was in fact soaked with perspiration, and aching head to foot. Ben To would not be pleased.

He pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders and set off at a weary trudge for the residential level, his bad feeling pounding in his pulse, fit to match his splitting headache. By the time he arrived in the familiar corridor, he was only in tenuous control of his emotions. He prayed that Qui Gon would not yet have returned. He needed to think, and to meditate, and to sleep.

The encounter had been…. most disturbing.

* * *

Tahl was already in the Temple docking bay when Qui Gon edged the speeder back into the nearest available space.

"You found something," she breathed, after taking one look at his face.

He tossed the ignition cylinder at the sputtering transport droid and slipped the diagnostic circuit-box into her hand. "Buried treasure."

Tahl's shapely fingers closed over the prize. "A contact?" she asked. "Did you witness a liason?"

They strode down the hangar's central aisle, the sleeping vehicles lined up on either side, a silent and gleaming honor guard. "No," Qui Gon shook his head. "I did not stay to be apprehended. I _have_ learned a few things over the years."

Tahl's golden eyes widened in mirth, remembering. "So all your mistakes _have_ paid off. I'll have Ban Yaro look at this … he'll be able to take it apart in no time, and _I'll_ be able to tell you what it means."

They reached the adjoining concourse and the soaring central hall. "You are a treasure beyond reckoning," he said, noticing, not for the first time, how exquisite her fine-boned face was, how delicate the sculpting of her hands, how the Living Force seemed to kindle gently like a vestal fire in the subtle valley above her heart.

Her golden eyes were half-veiled by their luxurious fringe of lashes. "And you are a mangy spice pirate masquerading as a knight," she scoffed, color rising into her cheeks, a tiny pulse beating at the base of her long throat. "Come see me later."

"I will."

"So we can look at what you've discovered."

He bowed. "I need to look in on my favorite brat first. Doubtless he's driven poor Feld Spruu to distraction. Compassion requires that I come to the aid of a fellow Jedi in distress."

Tahl snorted. "Honor among thieves." And she swept down the hall toward the lift tubes.

* * *

The Padawan in question was inexcusably late in returning to their shared quarters.

"I thought you were to have an escort at all times." Qui Gon blocked the doorway, his broad frame and sweeping cloak seeming to spill over the threshold, much as his displeasure spilled over their shared bond.

Obi Wan bowed his head. "I am sorry, master – it wasn't for long. I was with.. Master Dooku until five minutes ago."

The Jedi master shifted aside, gestured the truant Padawan through the door, into their quarters. "And what were you doing with Master Dooku?"

A long silence.

"Obi Wan."

His apprentice faced him, expression well-contained, fortified against siege. "I went to see Xanatos, master."

Something shattered, invisibly. Several heartbeats passed in stunned silence.

Some of the color drained from Qui Gon's face. His posture stiffened perceptibly, and the Force was abruptly tinged with his released anger. "Against my wishes," he ground out, tautly.

Obi Wan's chin came up. "Not against your wishes. You did not forbid me to speak with him; indeed, you said we should obey the Council's command to meet with him. I was fulfilling that mandate."

Qui Gon's eyes flashed dangerously. "Your version of _obedience_ jeopardizes your honor, young one. Do not mince words with me."

Obi Wan waved a hand, slamming shut the still open door. "You never forbade it."

"That is a childish equivocation. You know full well that I would not, and do not approve of such a course of action on your part. Your failure to _inform_ me beforehand is sufficient proof of that."

"You accuse me of lying, then."

He raised an eyebrow. "I accuse you of _deception. _Yes."

The young Jedi abruptly turned his back. Strange and lurid emotions set the Force into a pitched fever.

"_Padawan."_ The acerbic tone brought Obi Wan round again, feet planted in a battle ready stance, hard lines of his face radiating a wounded indignation. "Xanatos is _dangerous. _And… " he deliberately steadied his voice. "Master Dooku is not a someone with whom I wish you to consort, either."

That had his apprentice's attention. "Master _Dooku_ trained you!" he objected.

"Listen to me. Master Dooku spent much time with Xanatos before his… betrayal of the Order. I do not think his insight is for everyone. His path leads him into strange realms… some you are not yet prepared to encounter."

Obi Wan's bewilderment gave way to a fresh wave of outrage. "I won't _Turn _ master! How can you even conceive such base calumny?" Outrage blossomed into real anger, laced with fear, with doubt and distrust.

The Jedi master narrowed his eyes. "A Jedi has no self; an insult is nothing but a blow to your pride. Do not tell me you are above reproach or temptation."

"I am not following a dark path," Obi Wan insisted, striving to smother his flaring temper beneath a blanket of calm. "I am following the will of the Force."

"You are defying your master," Qui Gon corrected him, sharply.

"From your point of view! _You _always defy the Council when the Force so prompts you! _You _told me that a Jedi listens to the will of the Force above _all else._"

_In the name of -!_ "Do you suppose yourself a master already, that you so surely understand the will of the Force? That you can dispense with all guidance and find your own way?"

"_You_ said that my balance should not depend so minutely upon your own! I am honoring _your_ teachings!"

He seized the Padawan's chin in one hand. "Enough." They glared at each other, mental shields raised to excruciating intensity, the Force roiling about them, deafening and dizzying.

At last the tall man took a deliberate pace backward, loosing his painful grip. " Hear me. I forbid you to speak to Xanatos again. Do not defy my explicit order."

Obi Wan sank to one knee, stricken. "Master! I _must_. I do not wish to defy you. Please do not lay this command on me." He bowed his head, waiting.

But leniency was far too dangerous a luxury to indulge. "Disobey me in this, Padawan, and you will have committed a _serious_ offense. The Council will not champion the cause of your insurrection, I assure you."

The young Jedi made no reply, but remained kneeling in mute supplication, a silent plea to be released from the crushing dilemma.

Qui Gon turned his back on the heart-rending spectacle, just as he had turned from a broken Xanatos on Telos so long ago, by an act of sheerest will. He would not allow himself to look upon a display of unbecoming emotion…. lest he succumb to the same.

Aching as he had not in years, he went to find Tahl, and peace.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 12: Philosopher**

* * *

"I would _never_ have spoken to Dooku in such a manner!" Qui Gon fumed.

Tahl rolled her eyes and reclined against the wall behind her meditation cushion. "No, you were always the tall, silent type. Your defiance was quiet and obstinate."

He threw her a fulminating look, pivoting at the end of the small chamber and stalking across its length in four strides, a caged colwar.

"You should be grateful that your Padawan is a man of honor," Tahl informed him, placidly, her golden eyes following the graceful lines of his vexed perambulation with evident appreciation. "_Master, I feel obliged to thwart your will. I shall endeavor to disobey with as little inconvenience to others as possible, and I shall promptly return to be sentenced and punished._"

Qui Gon nearly laughed, releasing a disgruntled breath and coming to a halt, hands at his belt. "Gentleman or no, he has chosen a very grave occasion for his display of insubordination. He does not know Xanatos as I do."

Tahl shifted her weight, folding her legs beneath her and settling her hands in her lap. "Hm. Have you thought that perhaps you no longer know Xanatos, either?"

This insight only earned her a piercing look, one which took her breath away, but not in the manner intended.

"I _told_ him – years ago, after his first meeting with Xanatos, that if he _ever _ so explicitly defied my direct order again, the consequences would be severe."

Tahl smiled. "I doubt that threat reduced Obi Wan to quailing subjection," she remarked dryly.

Qui Gon's mouth twisted. "Of course not," he admitted. "He blithely informed me that he would be sure to make the second occasion worth the price."

Her rich, cascading laughter softened his mood a trifle.

"You don't know what I suffer," he grumbled. Then, "Forgive me, my friend. I am ranting. And imbalanced."

"I should prefer that apology on bended knee."

He knelt obediently before her, extending his hands palm-outward. Her palms brushed against his, the fingers splaying to match his, their tips only reaching his second knuckle. They touched each other thusly, as crechelings playing at a childhood game, the Force tuning their wayward thoughts and feelings into a consonant understanding. And they were silent, content in their mutual insatiety.

* * *

The balcony was where they meditated. This was its function, its purpose, its ordained privilege. Obi Wan could see three or four stars tonight, counting Vandor – a rare spectacle in the light and pollution saturated skies of Coruscant.

He knew the order of his tasks well, by heart. First, the cessation of movement, of nervous energy. That was accomplished. He was exhausted.

Next, centering breaths. His body was lethargic, heavy, the sweet kindling of indrawn air lending no vigor, barely penetrating the fog of illness. He should probably see the healers about that….

A stray thought. The release of all distractions, all idle speculation came next. This was always his sticking point, but tonight as always he managed to overcome the siren call of his own brooding. It helped that he didn't really _want_ to think about many of the things clamoring for his attention.

And then the release of all emotion, all undisciplined feeling, dissipated passion and instinct. These had been spent earlier, in his heated exchange with Qui Gon, and the hours of remorseful grief afterward.

Finally, surrender to the Force. He closed his eyes, slipping into its welcome embrace, sloughing off individuality and the burdens of time and place, the ache of recent memory, the confusion wrought by his glimpse into another's madness. The Light drew him close, soothed away regret and anxiety, overflowed within him, until he was limp in its effulgence, a vessel and burning lamp.

Images formed within its imperishable flames: portent and mandate intertwined.

_A chained beast – a gundark, half-starved, thrusting its head and shoulders through the slick entrance of an ice cave, jaws agape with mindless hunger, eyes rolling with instinctual madness. It was bound in heavy manacles, constricting chains, its bonds cutting into scaled flesh, dragging against it as it strove to crawl toward the light cast by a small fire, one tended by a dark-cloaked figure._

_The dragon roared and thrashed against the chains, its claws scraping hideously against the frigid cave floor, its voice echoing a shrill counterpoint to its writhing distress. The figure waited until the monster had crawled and strained its way to the very edge of the flames, panting, misshapen, forked tongue lolling hopelessly over crooked teeth._

_He, witness by the Force's decree, cried out to the hooded man to have mercy, to cut the thing's chains away._

The vision melted, dissolved into the universal, and then coalesced once more, in another place, another time.

_This cave was dank, and reeked of hot metal, corrosive chemicals. Clouds not of vapor but of tainted steam, choking pillars of white and sickly yellow, rose in twisting synchrony to the dark ceiling, shrouded by a web of girders, intersecting duracrete geometries. In the gloom, a gundark roared, screamed, a pathetic howling, a ululation of despairing rage. And a larger beast, darker, flesh scarred and knotted by innumerable battles, circled about its dying foe, its prisoner. Tormented, the smaller dragon lashed out, snapped at its captor's heels and tail. But the conqueror cried out its victory in a deafening voice, and closed its jaws about the fallen creature's neck, crushing its throat and leaving it broken amid the dismal wreckage of the cave, the piles and struts of this hollow tomb._

The Force released him, a gentle but inexorable sundering, felt as a subtle pressure beneath his ribs, a soft twisting in his belly. He surfaced from the trance, the scent of ion emissions and ubiquitous Courscanti smog sharp in the back of his throat, the cold nighttime breeze wicking away the sheen of sweat on his face.

He understood nothing of what he had seen; and yet he was certain that the Force urged him to pity, to the defense of one who had no other means of defense, against a foe he could barely name or imagine.

He went inside, feeling the weight of that strange duty settle upon him like a solemn verdict.

* * *

Ban Yaro was flushed with victory.

"This was a tricky one, Master Uvain, but I've cracked it," the red-haired Padawan grinned. He slotted the dissected circuits of the diagnostic unit into an access port in his computer bank, and fiddled intently with the display settings for the holo-plate. After a short interval, a ship's schematic flickered into existence, rotating slowly in mid-air. "Here we are. It gives a full history of drive activity, fuel levels, hyperdrive use. I assume you wanted to correlate this information with possible trajectories?"

Tahl leaned in closer, one finger delicately prodding at the touch-sensitive image, calling up additional windows of scrolling data. "This is all very technical," she muttered, squinting at the various threads of numbers and symbols.

Ban Yaro waved a hand. "I've been working on it all night," he said. "I am very grateful for the challenge – the comm center can be very dreary at times, if you will forgive me saying so. I mean no disrespect, of course-"

Qui Gon chuckled quietly. 'You are not the only Padawan to find his assigned routine enervating and in dire need of variation."

The young Jedi tapped away at a datapad wired into the console, and called up a standard hyperlane navigation index. "Here we are, masters," he explained. "The last jump terminus was presumably Coruscant six or nine, the ship's too small to sustain any others, and the diagnostic history shows two consecutive legs of equal length… so," he punched in another set of commands, "Here are the possible origination points."

Tahl and Qui Gon gazed stonily at the cluster of bright spots scattered across the bright spangling of star systems. They pointed in unison to a green spot at one edge of the charted galaxy. "There."

"The Rishi Maze? There's nothing out that way, really," Ban Yaro objected.

"_That,"_ Tahl reminded him, "Is our judgement to make." When the apprentice bowed his head in acknowledgment, she relented a little. "You have been a marvelous help. I shall be sure to commend your skill and dedication to Master Kaama."

"Thank you, master," the Padawan replied, still shaking his head over the tangle of intersecting hyperlanes and the messy collage of overlapping jurisdiction-boundaries and shipping routes. "It was my pleasure to be of assistance."

Tahl straightened. "And, Ban Yaro, this is classified information. Destroy the circuits and wipe the computer's memory of this map."

A solemn nod from the astonished apprentice confirmed that this would be done. Tahl looked at her companion. "Qui, we need to talk. Privately."

They left Ban Yaro to eradicate all traces of their snooping, and departed together.

* * *

Morning meditation was a silent vignette; breakfast an exercise in wordless courtesy; the walk from residential levels to the lower Temple concourse a taciturn pilgrimage. Master and apprentice parted ways at the entrance to the Archives.

Obi Wan bowed with careful formality, and held Qui Gon's gaze for the full ten seconds the Jedi master required for critical inspection before he turned his broad back and departed on his own business. He lingered another ten, watching the tall man's cloaked figure retreat across the wide hall and enter an adjoining corridor, never slackening pace or looking backward. Qui Gon Jinn was not one to waver or relent, once resolved upon one side of a dispute.

The Padawan swallowed down a tightening lump of … something, and turned sharply about, to stalk down the Archive's soaring central aisle. The glowing blue holobooks glimmered serenely down upon him, rising in stately tiers two stories high, to right and left, a solemn assembly of knowledge. At the end of each row, a bronzium bust stood sentinel, nine upon either side.

He paused to gaze upon the first, one hand brushing over the cold smears and sworls of metal, the frozen encapsulation of a mournful face surmounted by horns. An Iktotchi Jedi, his name engraved beneath the memorial statue. This master of long ago was counted among the Lost – the few full-sworn members of the Order who had voluntarily left its ranks forever. He stared into the opaque spheres of the eyes, their unseeing curves dully glinting in the low light, seeming to look past his façade of calm into the unsettled realm where doubt forged a new understanding, hammering certainties into bent and unfamiliar shapes, pounding raw experience flat, refining and twisting, a sparking and throbbing that made itself felt as headache.

"May I be of assistance, Padawan?"

He nearly started at Madame Nu's abrupt materialization at his elbow. "Oh. No, no thank you, Madame. I was merely looking at Juun Ka'aal."

Her bright eyes, carved into faceted gems by the relentless chisel of age, studied him appraisingly and then shifted to the cold visage on its pedestal. She folded her hands over her embroidered tabards. "Yes. It is instructive to meditate on the fact that many of his writings are still used as teaching texts, though he himself abandoned his vows to the Order. Of course, unlike many of the other Lost, Master Ka'aal did not succumb to the Dark."

The young Jedi looked past her, to the remaining Lost, the line of dull metallic sculptures arrayed in formation upon their narrow columns. The centuries proceeded down their ranks, passing into distant memory, into forgotten generations; and yet, this strange motif endured. "Why are they displayed here in the Archives?" he asked, wondering why he had never before thought to raise this question.

Jocasta Nu nodded approvingly. "Few bother to ask. Why do you think?"

Of course she had turned the inquiry back upon him. Dialectical exchange was a privilege reserved for masters, and exercised with ruthless vigor upon the younger generation. Naturally, any return in kind would be considered rank disrespect. Obi Wan sighed, lifted his eyes to the distant vault of the ceiling, where soft shadow brooded over the treasure-hoard of learning.

"Because wisdom does not mean only mastering the tradition to which we belong, but also acknowledging and understanding that which has criticized and opposed it."

Madame Nu's wrinkled lips curved into a thin smile of approval. Her hard-edged eyes softened a trifle. "A fine answer, especially for one so young. Have you read any of Master Ka'aal's treatises?"

He nodded. "A few."

"Then you will know that he was a great proponent of forgiveness, holding that compassion for an enemy was a more central virtue even than obedience. A fascinating scholar and thinker," Madame Nu added, "Though of course, rather heretical in his later years."

"Yes, master." Obi Wan briefly wondered whether this would be among those disputations about which the Living Force would not, in the words of Qui Gon, give a womprat's –

"You are looking a bit peaked, I must say," the perceptive archivist interrupted his speculation, laying one knotted hand upon his arm. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"Ah… no. Yes. I should sit. Thank you." He bowed, dismissing her and extracting himself in one fell swoop.

"Hm," Madame Nu remarked, and bustled away across the polished marble floor.

Obi Wan slipped aside and entered the nearest study alcove, only to find it already occupied. "I'm sorry, master," he muttered, before the identity of the other had quite registered.

Syfo-Dyas' slanted eyes held his for a timeless moment. "No, no," the Sentinel murmured. "Don't go, Padawan."

He hesitated, halfway over the threshold. "I'll find another alcove, master. I apologize for disturbing you." And yet the Force said otherwise, whispering at the back of his mind. _Stay. Be mindful. _

The tall master stood in a single fluid motion and loomed near, a cold parody of avuncular tolerance. "You may have this one." He bared his teeth in a smile. "It will keep you out from underfoot." And he was gone, his saber hilt just visible behind his cloak's hem as he slipped past.

_Be mindful. Watch._

He turned, following the Sentinel's determined course toward the holocron vault at the Archives' far end.

But Qui Gon would certainly further involvement. The memory of his mentor's retreating back, the firm line of his shoulders, the fine etching of lines about his eyes and mouth when they had stood locked in fruitless silence before parting, all stood in opposition to the Force's prompting. Obi Wan forced his reluctant limbs into the alcove and sat, hands clenched atop his knees, shivering despite the heavy folds of his cloak and the mute caress of sunlight spilling from a lofty window.

* * *

"You haven't changed your mind," Qui Gon observed, a sinking feeling laying claim to heart and gut, staining the Force with a querulous anxiety. He breathed it out, slowly.

Tahl's eyes were faraway, as far distant in focus as the Rishi Maze. "Somebody has to go see. I have coordinates. And a sneaking suspicion."

He closed his own eyes, wishing that he could eradicate those fateful discoveries from both their minds. But this was not their fate; they had sworn to serve. "A solo mission into unincorporated territory…. It's rash."

"Then you must hand over this entire investigation to the Council. And the Sentinels."

He sank onto the floor beside her, took one delicate hand between both of his. "Who are already involved. They've known of Arbor Foundation for nearly a year; it should come as no surprise that Syfo-Dyas has a contact from that same region of space." Her skin was warm to the touch. He could feel the blood pulsing gently beneath the smooth skin. "If they discover your interference, it will not go well with the Council. Or the Sentinels."

"Are _you_ exhorting me to prudence and foresight?"

He bowed low, until his forehead rested against her knee. "Tahl."

The Force contracted into an intimate circle, an overladen silence. "I'm going to do this, Qui. I have the perfect excuse, as a researcher. I have the skill. I have the knowledge, now. And the longer this mystery festers, the greater evil it will wreak in time. I told you I would help you, and this is how I shall keep that pledge."

He did not move, the Living Force decreeing only that this parting was different, more lasting. "I do not hold you to it," he murmured, his fingers tightening about hers in supplication.

"The Force does," she answered, gently pulling her hand free and lifting his face upward again, fingers tracing over cheekbones and jawline. "And I will do what I must."

In her liquid gaze, molten gold, sweetest amber honey, there was the same knowledge that this moment was a finality, a last benediction granted by a merciless fate. They lingered in it for a measureless span of time, precariously balanced at the summit of a falls, over which submission and grief plunged headlong onto rocks below.

* * *

Obi Wan remained in the restricting confines of the alcove until the sun had climbed across the meridian, carrying its light away to the building's east side and leaving him swathed in deep shadow. A glow lamp sat upon the unadorned desk; but he ignored it. Many hours had passed since his brief encounter with Syfo-Dyas; the day had waned into a sullen afternoon; his headache and chill had magnified to obscene proportions. The Force itself seemed distant, ill-pleased with his hesitance, his recalcitrant attempt to ignore its guidance. The lengthening shadows crawling across the Archives' inlaid floor reached toward him, fingers gesturing accusatorily at his idleness, his refusal.

He massaged savagely at his aching temples, wished for a second cloak to stave off the penetrating cold. Since when did the Archives feel like Ilum's caves? Weary after prolonged rest, he shakily climbed to his feet and peered into the hushed enclave without. There were other Jedi wandering the aisles here and there; one might be willing to escort him back to quarters, though the request would be an imposition. His hand went to the belt pouch where his comlink lay nestled – but he did not wish to disturb Qui Gon with a request to be _fetched, _ like a stray pet or a missing child. The two of them had not exchanged more than twenty words all told since last night's pointed conflict; and he had no keen desire to add to that tally.

He rubbed the back of one hand across his face, twisting his features in bemused annoyance at the novel rough patches making themselves felt near the edges, an itching scruff which seemed to echo his generally frayed condition. Frustrated, and doubly frustrated by his woolly-witted incapacity to think beyond the childish conundrum, he moved into the central aisle and paced along the edge of the stacks, the bronzium busts frowning upon his egress.

He stooped once more to consult the effigy of Junn Ka'aal, the master who had always championed the impossible cause, even at the cost of the Council's severe and permanent displeasure. A stray shaft of warmth fell upon his back and shoulders from the east-facing skylight, and he basked in it, watching the late-day radiance slide over the sculpted metal face.

"What would you do?" he inquired politely of the long dead Jedi master, the simultaneously revered and condemned rogue.

But it was not Junn Ka'aal who answered. It was the Force itself. _You already know._

He steeled himself and turned around, until the last sunbeam fell full on his face, at once blinding and emboldening. There was always _that_ option – the simple, effective, direct, and totally forbidden solution to his present dilemma of conscience. He closed his eyes, letting the Light soothe away some of the spiking fever.

And then he strode purposefully for the exit, his decision made.


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 13: Prisoner**

* * *

She left from the southern docking bay just as the sun set.

"Until we next meet," Tahl murmured, drinking in the sight of him as though it might be her last. The dying sun edged her dark cloak in ageless fire, molten gold to match her eyes.

"Until then," Qui Gon replied. There were others present in the busy transport area; they stood a proper distance apart. "May the Force be with you."

_May it be with you always._

She bowed, and he bowed, their mutual courtesy groaning beneath the weight of too many meanings, a surfeit of unuttered truths. Qui Gon 's hand curled about his saber hilt when he straightened. Tahl threw her shoulders back and turned, slowly, her eyes staying on his face until her gaze slid away, into the blazing funeral pyre of the evening outside. She ascended the ship's ramp without looking back, and the warm evening breeze fondled the hem of her cloak before the hatch sealed her inside.

He watched the gleaming speck disappear into Coruscant's sky as the first star appeared low on the horizon.

* * *

Master Dooku did not answer his comlink.

"Blast." Obi Wan leaned against the stone wall, pulse drumming in his veins. He hadn't considered how to overcome this small obstacle: he needed the Jedi master's assistance if he wished to speak to Xanatos again.

But the Force was with him. No sooner had he shoved the comm unit back into his belt pouch, than the Shadow himself appeared from the adjacent lift-terminal, dark cloak rippling about his polished boots. One silver brow rose at the sight of the Padawan lurking in the cold lower level corridor. "Kenobi."

"Master Dooku – I was trying to contact you –"

Yan Dooku's lip curled distastefully. "Force, child, you're ill as a filthy street akk. What, pray, do you think you're doing?"

He brushed away his irritation and looked up, boldly. "I need to speak to Xanatos again."

An inscrutable light played in the Sentinel's grey eyes. "Indeed?" He paused, considering. "It seems we are bound by a serendipitous destiny. I was just going to see him myself. You may accompany me." He held up an imperious hand. "And then you will seek the healers' care before you reduce this Temple to a state of rampant contagion."

A fresh wave of annoyance almost unleashed his tongue, but prudence managed to circumvent that disaster. Obi Wan's jaw clenched a little. "Yes, Master Dooku."

"Good." The Sentinel led the way deeper into the basement levels, into the passage hewn of thanatosine granite.

Knowing what to expect did not ease the transition in the least; by the time they reached the familiar cell door, Obi Wan was reeling, half-gasping in the arid, attenuated Force.

Dooku overrode the locking mechanism with his handprint. "Very well. You first… and don't collapse. It would be most unbecoming."

Glaring a little, the Padawan brushed past him, feeling the door slide close at his heels.

"Xanatos," he said. "I've come to help you."

* * *

Mace was irate.

"First a murder and now this! I'm taking the matter into my own hands."

Qui Gon matched his long stride pace for pace. The Korun master stormed into the Archives main level, the Force gathered about him in a roiling nimbus.

Jocasta Nu was waiting. "Mace," she addressed him, without preamble. "It's a holocron containing several Sith indices and a treatise on Dark Side manipulation of the living organism. That knowledge is irreplaceable, and dangerous."

Qui Gon caught the unspoken echo of a profane oath echo in the Force. "Only Council members and a few others have access to that vault," was all that Mace said aloud.

Madame Nu's mouth thinned into a razored line. "Our security is impeccable."

"Apparently _not," _the tall Korun snapped. "If someone has removed such an important artifact without detection."

The Archivist had no ready answer for this. She bowed her silver head.

Mace exchanged a guarded sidelong glance with Qui Gon. "I'm putting the Temple on alert. I want to speak with any possible witnesses."

"Obi Wan was here all afternoon," Qui Gon told him, wondering why his Padawan had not already appeared from between the stacks, or one of the study alcoves. Impatient, he paged the boy's comlink. No answer.

A flicker of warning stirred at the base of his spine.

"He left earlier," Madame Nu said, crisply.

"In company or alone?" But there was no point asking; he already knew the answer.

Mace cast a wary look in his direction. "What is it?"

Qui Gon was already halfway to the exit. "I need to find him. I'll be in contact." And he sped away, the Force chiding him for his lack of attention, for his preoccupation, for his failure to _enforce_ his mandate by whatever means necessary. There was too much at stake.

Because Obi Wan did not know Xanatos DuCrion as he should – or he was being deliberately foolish. Either way, the consequences would be severe.

* * *

Xanatos DuCrion uncoiled from the single inset bunk. His eyes seemed to be lanterns set in twin caves, chiseled clefts in a barren and wind-scoured peak. The bones of his face protruded unhealthily; the skin was papery, colorless, his hair ragged, uncut and perhaps even falling out in clumps here and there. His whole posture spoke of slow starvation.

Obi Wan looked helplessly at the bare walls of the prison. "Are they… feeding you?" he asked, gut twisting.

A bitter laugh met this naïve question. "Don't you know anything, Kenobi? Of course they feed me, they keep it warm in here, they provide me with whatever physical comforts I require. The Jedi do not _abuse_ prisoners."

The Padawan could not take his eyes from the emaciated frame of his interlocutor. "But…"

Xanatos leered, displaying what might once have been a handsome smile. "Do you know what happens to a Jedi deprived of the _Force, _little one?" he gestured at the slack drape of his worn tunic. "This. We …_fade._ It isn't pretty, is it?" he leaned back against the stone wall, enjoying the revulsion written on the young Jedi's features. "I haven't really touched it in _two years._ Because I'm a dangerous fellow."

"That's a lie. You used the Force when I chased you down after Bruck Chun's death…" Obi Wan trailed off. The man before him was a scarecrow, a gaunt echo of his former self. The Jedi with whom he had dueled in the tight confines of the air shafts, above the gardens, had been powerful, and strong…. He felt the air thin. The Force roared in his ears, distantly. He grasped for it, desperately. Warning? Guidance? Insight? But it was too muted, too distorted here, as faded and grim as the man sitting before him.

"That wasn't me," Xanatos muttered, wearily. "Though they'll blame it on me."

"They?" Oh, no. No, no, no. Remember: this man was a traitor and a liar. A serpent.

"They, he. I know what he wants with Outworld's files. I can show you."

"That's why you want my help." This was a tricky negotiation; he did not trust Xanatos at all, and yet he needed to know, too. Had not the Force driven him here, practically haunted and cajoled him for days and days, until his resistance had crumbled beneath the onslaught of its intangible prompting?

"No," Xanatos chuckled darkly. "That's why you want my help. I need yours for a much simpler reason. You're going to help me escape."

"I will not!"

"You will. If you don't then, you condemn me to destruction. Would you wish this on anyone? I can feel my mind slipping away. Is that what you want for me?"

"You deserve it." But even as the words escaped him, his conviction bled away. A Jedi shall know not revenge. And compassion for an enemy is a greater virtue than any other. He backed up, until the opposite wall stopped his retreat.

"Leave me to die, then, in madness. Once I break, I'll be sure to give up Offworld to the Shadows. You don't know what a mind probe can achieve."

Oh, Force. Obi Wan _did_ know. His belly flipped, remembering.

Xanatos hunched forward again, blue eyes glimmering amid the ashes of his face. "Your choice, Obi Wan. Condemn me, or help me. If you don't, be assured, nobody else will. Do, and I can show you something to bring you _wisdom._ I'll show you the truth."

In memory, a phantasmal figure mocked him, laughter a caress of ice in Ilum's cave: _You have not the strength to bear it. Come find your truth._

A hand rapped against the panel: Dooku, demanding an end to the short interview. Obi Wan gazed, horror-struck, at the Dark puppet-mockery of a Jedi, the un-self crouched before him, and wondered in his heart whether Junn Ka'aal might be right, whether even Xanatos had a seed of Light still within him, a kernel of his former self that cried out for mercy and compassion, for a release from its chains, from the cruel bonds that held it to its guilt, that condemned it to death between the crushing, dragons' jaws of the Sentinels…

"Give me your saber," Xanatos ordered, urgent. "Now."

His hand closed fast about the shining hilt. His saber was his life, as new and untested as it was. How could he entrust it to a proved _enemy?_ The absent Force gave no counsel.

"Now!" Xanatos shouted, rising from the bench, his face taut with fervor.

But even in the blank void of that awful place, there was the Light carried within. He closed his eyes and handed the sacred weapon to Xanatos DuCrion, traitor and foe.

* * *

Qui Gon stormed into the tiny vestibule just as Dooku impatiently opened the cell door – to reveal a scene delicate enough to freeze both Jedi masters in place.

"Stand aside," Xanatos DuCrion ordered, teeth bared in a simulacrum of pleasant greeting.

"Obi Wan!"

The Padawan could not very well make reply; he was held pinned against Xanatos, his own thrumming blue saber blade at his throat. The line of sapphire fire was close enough to the skin to be painful; his rigid backward arching posture and the sheen of sweat on his face proclaimed the awkwardness of his position.

Dooku flicked disdainful eyes up and down. "Don't be a fool, DuCrion. Harm the boy and you forfeit your own life."

"A solution I would welcome," the dark-haired youth scoffed, dropping the saber's blade a notch. Fibers along his hostage's tunic collar began to smolder. Obi Wan shifted uneasily, teeth gritted. "Though I daresay Qui Gon would not be pleased with the outcome. Two Padawans in one blow."

"Release him," Qui Gon ordered, hand already curled about his own weapon's hilt. "You are not leaving this chamber, in either case."

Dooku, however, waved a hand. "Now, now, Qui Gon. Let us not be melodramatic. What do you hope to accomplish by this charade, Du Crion?"

Xanatos edged across the threshold. "I'm taking a speeder bike from the Temple docking hangar. Nobody will follow me. If you keep your word, I'll release the boy somewhere on Coruscant before I depart."

Dooku snorted. "Sophomoric, but predictable." He smiled thinly. "Have a care – should you fail, there will be no second offer of reconciliation."

Xantos sneered at him. "I would rather be damned than accept your terms of _penance_ anyway, old man." He steered his captive forward another pace, the saber blade thrumming hot and loud in the close space, the Force-less void of the prison level. "Out of my way, _Jinn, _or I'll drop his pretty head on your boots."

"Padawan." Qui Gon could see that his apprentice was trying to communicate something to him, through the Force, across their bond…. But the smothering nothingness drowned it out, swallowed it whole and left only a mute apology in its place. Shuddering, he stood aside.

"Don't follow me," Xanatos warned again, sidling out the door and down the passageway.

* * *

"We'll split up," Mace declared. "There are only so many possibilities. And Obi Wan will slow him down; he's trained, and he knows what to do."

Dooku nodded. "The Sentinels will cover the major spaceports."

"And I'll head for the Maash Pit – that's a likely location to pick up an unlicensed ship for hire. Qui Gon?"

The tall man nodded. "The industrial sector." Indeed, he knew exactly where he would look first, for the Force, now that it once again filled him and pulsed within his breath and blood, told him that nothing happens by coincidence; that all his recent discoveries, all his late anxiety, were twisted together in a constricting noose, a skein of treachery and plotting that threatened to choke off the very Light and bring the Order itself to its knees.

"The first to locate them should call for backup and proceed with caution," Mace added, unnecessarily. "May the Force be with you."

* * *

"There was no need to be _rude_ to Master Jinn!" Obi Wan shouted over the rushing wind.

His traveling companion's shoulders rose in a contemptuous shrug. "Shut up, Kenobi! You can apologize for both of us later!"

The Padawan tightened his grip as Xanatos threaded the air-bike through Coruscant's abandoned industrial sector at breakneck speed, hugging corners of looming towers and broken scaffolding, dipping below broken causeways, accelerating dangerously through narrow canyons and troughs in the jumbled cityscape. With the influx of adrenaline came the Force, too; and now that he could touch it again, _feel_ it flow through him, pervade him, he could focus narrowly upon his goal. He would see what revelation Xanatos had in store, and then overpower the ex-Jedi, summon aid from the Temple. His saber lay nestled against Xanatos' chest, but he could feel the crystal's faint chiming calling to him. It was _his, _attuned to him and ready to serve. Not long now. They were drawing close to their destination – he could sense his strange accomplice's anticipation, his hunger for some obscure consummation.

"You'll never get off planet," he reminded Xanatos. "They _will_ follow us!"

The dark-haired reprobate laughed, executing a breathtaking dive through the rust-corroded roof of a vast, derelict factory. "There will be a ship ready and waiting…. And besides, you should worry more than me!" he hollered back. "When the Council finds out what you've done, they'll have the Sentinels throw you in that cell in my stead!"

A dreadful thought. Obi Wan pushed it aside, by a ruthless act of will. He had followed the guidance of the Force, and the voice of instinct. There was nothing else he could or would have done; the consequences he would deal with later, presuming he survived this maniac's farcical approximation of _piloting_ skills.

"Here," Xanatos crowed, bringing them to a shuddering and reckless halt inside the gutted remains of a factory assembly floor.

Obi Wan slid gratefully off the swoop, feeling more ill than ever, and nearly stumbled into a gap in the floor – a place where the durasteel had corroded away to reveal a frothing pit countless meters below. The acrid tang of some foul chemical wafted through the jagged opening.

"Oh yes," Xanatos drawled, "Careful. The old industrial waste pits are below. The vapor has eaten through the floor in places, so you'll need to watch your step."

The young Jedi needed no further warning. Threading his way among the gaping holes, he followed Du Crion through the echoing space, heading for the far end. As they made their way through the gloom, he raised his bleary eyes to the all –too-familiar girders and fretting of the high ceiling, the harsh metallic stalactites of this black cave, this dark smithy and reeking, empty tomb, this place which he had seen already in Force-given vision, unforgettable nightmare.

They had indeed arrived.

* * *

Xanatos executed a slow pirouette, disbelief oozing through the Force in hot waves of shock and betrayal. "It's gone," he muttered. "It's _gone." _ He added an exotic obscenity or two, nothing Obi Wan was familiar with.

"What is? What are you talking about?"

Du Crion slewed about, desperation robbing his movements of any grace. "The truth, my young friend. What your damnable Order is _really _ committed to. What the future holds." His eyes shifted side to side, searching in the shadows. "He got here first. He knew. That scheming son of a slatternly Sith _knew."_

"Save your uncouth vituperation for a less impressionable audience," a reedy voice spoke, from the deep veiling of darkness at the edge of the cavernous warehouse floor. "And of course I knew."

Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas appeared, one shadow separating from the rest, a phantom slipping from the periphery of awareness into sharp focus, casting off its Force-woven shields and masks. He frowned at the pair of them, stepping forward across the echoing floor, dark cloak clinging about him like some cobweb of shadow not yet sloughed away.

Xanatos growled, withdrew Obi Wan's saber from its hiding place. The Sentinel's hand rested lightly on his own weapon's hilt, a clear warning.

"Did you suppose your puerile scheming would go unforeseen?" Sifo Dyas addressed the Telosian, tightly. "You have replied to our kindness and compassion in a most horrific fashion: killing a docent, stealing a holocron, and now kidnapping and I daresay _murder_ of a Padawan. You have stooped so low I do not think you will ever rise from the squalid pit of filth you dare to call a life._"_

This accusation was met with bitter laughter. "We are thus far equals."

Sifo Dyas' scowl was a lancing flash of contempt in the Force. "Surrender, Du Crion. You have no hope of victory here."

"Never. Offworld is mine, and it dies with me. You shall not have it."

"Come here, Kenobi – this traitor deserves to die."

But the Padawan did not move. He stood, half protectively, between the Shadow and his prey, the Force pounding behind his temples, burning feverish in his blood, telling him – crying aloud within his heart – that all was not right, that a great reversal and inversion had been played upon his senses, a deception more obscene than any he had yet encountered. "No. Killing in cold blood is not the Jedi way."

"Foolish boy! He will take your life to save his own. Come here now. I know not what lies he has fed you, but be assured, he is a liar and manipulator second to none, a master of deception."

And yet Obi Wan still hesitated, the rebellious Force wringing a cold sweat out of every pore, setting his limbs to trembling with a strange outrage. "No!" he threw back at the Sentinel, with a borrowed certainty, a power of conviction carried within the Force's kindling fire. "_You_ are a liar! It was _you_ who murdered Bruck Chun! It was _you_ whom I fought in the Temple that day! All this time, it has been _you!"_

"Delusional brat. You're delirious. Stand aside _now._"

"No.

Sifo Dyas' finely carved features took on a soulless severity. "Kenobi! Get out of the way, or be dealt with as accomplice to this treacherous cretin."

"_No."_

"Then so be it."

In the next moment, the Shadow's green saber blade had flashed to life in a sudden, actinic blaze of fury.

.


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 14: Warrior**

* * *

Sifo-Dyas lunged forward, striking fast and hard, a killing blow that bisected the stifling gloom into past and present, delusion and harsh truth.

Obi Wan leapt, Force-propelled, a heartbeat and a hairsbreadth ahead of the blow, twisting Ataru-style over his opponent's – _murderer's - _ head, landing behind him in a crouch, breath coming in rapid gasps, pulse driving his blood in a whirl. The Shadow was a _traitor. _ Was …_dark._

He rolled backward over one shoulder to avoid the next strike, and then sprang for the rafters high overhead, a burning resolution now branded into his will. Sifo-Dyas would _not_ kill him here, _not _ blame the crime on Xanatos and return to the Temple with solemn news of the same, bearing his dead body as evidence of DuCrion's treachery, a pathetic offering to crush Qui Gon's heart and veil over the true festering cancer in the Temple's hallowed core.

His leap was intercepted in mid-air; an invisible fist seemed to slam into his chest, sending him flailing across the empty space, back and legs hitting some unyielding surface with a shocking impact. The darkness erupted into stars and nebulae, bright splotches of color, and he was falling again, helplessly. He shoved outward, clumsy, inept, calling on the stunned and reeling Force to aid him, but still hit the floor with enough velocity to knock his breath clean away.

Winded, numb, he lay on his back and struggled vainly to clear his vision.

A blue saber howled within a meter of his body, crossing the downward sweep of the green blade. Blurry figures dueled and clashed together, the humming and spitting blades whirling in a dance of light. ObI Wan rolled onto his knees, gasped for breath, for the Force, pushing onto his feet despite the sickly rolling of the floor, the unsteady centrifugal motion of the cave-like world.

The blue 'saber left its wielder's hand, skittered across the slick factory floor; the weaponless figure went tumbling backward beneath a savage kick, sprawled in a vulnerable heap a few meters away. Sifo-Dyas advanced upon his fallen foe.

Obi Wan reached out a hand, summoned his saber. It flew to him, swift and sure, the crystal chiming clear, high, sonorous within the Force. The blade leapt back to life, an extension of his will, of his heart, blazing white-pure. Without thought, without effort, he was between the Sentinel and Xanatos, parrying the fatal strike, answering with a counterattack, blocking, striking, lunging, whirling, _locked_ together with the furious cloaked figure, the treasonous old gundark, a crusty dragon, pustulent and reeking of malice.

Light drove against dark, principality clashing with ageless power, the two Sides churning into a confused blur; Sifo-Dyas' cloak took a slashing strike, severed into two flapping pieces, the edges red-hot and smouldering; somewhere nearby, Xanatos made a bold move, and was hurled backward again with a flick of the Shadow's wrist. Obi Wan ducked beneath a strike, pivoted, struck low, blocked high, caught the green blade on his own, yielded, let the next strike slide past his right side, cut upward, grunted as his 'saber met a hammering downward blow, and disengaged, teeth bared, blade flourished in a wide circle, a screaming line of blue fire, an ephemeral battle-pennant.

"Brat!" the furious Sentinel snarled. "You try my patience!" He raised a hand, closing the fingers tight in a fist.

The young Jedi felt his feet leave the deck, even as his throat constricted beneath a painful, invisible clamp. A thrill of panic broke his connection with the Light; the 'saber dropped from his slackening fingers. Vainly he struggled to break Sifo-Dyas' grip, hands clawing futilely at his neck, seeking an enemy without bodily form. Spots swam before his eyes.

And he was thrown, heavily, onto his back again, his resistance shattering into stunned defeat beneath the blow. The Shadow loomed over him, the hard fist still raised in merciless anger. The ragged edge of a gap in the floor issued a trickling steam of bitter vapor over its lip, promising quick destruction below. Obi Wan writhed, fingers scrabbling at the smooth surface beneath him as he was pushed, slowly, deliberately toward that fateful ledge. He could feel the acidic condensation stinging his face; the agony of the seething pit beneath was beyond imagining.

Sifo-Dyas chuckled, and then wheeled about, his deadly grip loosening. Xanatos attacked, again bearing the blue saber, his form sloppy and inexpert, blunted by lack of practice, by his prolonged captivity.

Obi Wan gasped for breath, scrambled away from the horrific acid pool, looked for a projectile, anything at all, a broken piece of scaffolding, abandoned equipment, loose plating. The saber blades spat and growled, the green driving the blue inexorably backward.

He found it: a piece of wall insulation, rusted and hanging loose. The Force surged through him; he tore it loose and threw it headlong across the cavernous warehouse, at the maddened Sentinel's head.

Sifo-Dyas spun, carved the projectile in two with his saber, and blocked Xanatos' blow behind his back, flawless, indefatigable, impossibly skilled.

"You are outmatched," he sneered, turning on Xanatos in a fury, driving him to one knee and disarming him in one fluid motion. "You have not touched the Force in a long time, my young friend… and it shows." A snap of Sifo-Dyas' wrist sent his opponent smashing flat onto his back, weaponless, a searing line carved through cloth and flesh, belly to sternum. The green blade rose again –

-and Obi Wan's leap carried him headlong against the Shadow, his hands vying for the saber hilt even as the two of them slammed into the floor, grappling in a desperate, writhing tangle of limbs and cloak, the plasma blade searing hot gouges into the plasteel as they wrestled for dominance, their backs rolling over the burning slashes carved in the floor, their faces peppered with sparks and stinging fire.

Sifo Dyas ended on top, a knee in his smaller foe's back, free hand wrapped tight in the Padawan's nerf-tail, twisting his head sharply to one side, his right hand straining against the younger Jedi's grip, the green blade reducing the floor to a molten puddle, a hand's width from Obi Wan's face.

Eyes streaming, fear and fearlessness coursing equally in his veins, Obi Wan reached down, the fingers of his other hand straining, calling for the knife hidden in his left boot. It slipped out of its sheath, into his grasp. Sifo Dyas hissed something in his ear, leaning close, his hot breath a twisted valediction.

Obi Wan plunged the knife back-handed into the Sentinel's leg.

It did little damage, but in the moment of surprise and pain, he threw his enemy off and twisted away, rolling back to his feet. Another hole stretched wide behind him, inviting a drop into hellish liquid, corrosive oblivion. The stench was choking. Yellow clouds hung languid in the murky air.

The Shadow advanced, saber growling palpable threat, an implacable light in his slanted eyes. He prowled about his prey, savoring the moment of triumph.

Obi Wan panted, took a step backward, keeping distance, wary, expecting nothing, expecting anything, the Thesspari knife still clutched in his sweat slicked hand, a pathetic defense against Sifo-Dyas' weapon and mastery.

The Shadow bore down, face cast in lurid highlights by the ghastly acid bath beyond.

"Traitor!" he shouted at the advancing face of death. "You've dishonored the Order!"

Sifo Dyas's lip curled. His dark eyes flashed. "From my point of view, the Jedi Order is weak and corrupt, unworthy of service or continued existence."

"Then you are Lost!" the Padawan hollered, feeling the sticky caress of acid vapor against his neck, the wafting of toxic gas at his back, an updraft of colder air behind him as his heels came to the edge of the gaping pit in the floor.

"No," the Shadow smiled wanly. "_You_ are lost."

Another 'saber burned in the gloom; a line of green fire dropping like a thranctill from the girders above. Sifo-Dyas narrowly avoided the pouncing attack, flowing away from the hunter's plunging descent at the last moment, his blade barely deflecting a powerful severing blow, a strike delivered with enough power to cleave him head to groin.

"Master!"

Qui Gon spared him a fleeting glance, and closed with the Sentinel, his long hair flying behind him, his cloak flowing with his movement, the Force stirred into a hurricane of protective wrath. The two Jedi masters clashed like raging gundarks; their sabers threw up cascades of sparks and filled the empty cavern with a shrill chorus, a thunderous cacophony.

"Obi Wan!" Qui Gon thrust one hand in his direction, commanding. "Get out of here!"

The battle surged, shifted direction unpredictably. The two green blades screamed as they locked together, dissonant wails echoing off distant walls. Strengths and skills collided in a slippery stalemate, a violent opposition of wills.

"_Now!"_ the tall master thundered, the Force itself taut with his authority.

Obi Wan ran, stooping to retrieve his own weapon, abandoned amid the shadows, and then skidded to a halt by Xanatos' inert form. He knelt, hands balling in the man's stained tunics. "Xanatos! Xanatos!"

Bloodshot eyes flickered open. A trickle of crimson ran from one corner of Du Crion's mouth. "Kill me," he muttered.

Behind them, the battle raged, back and forth across the dark polished floor. Ghostly light flickered in the shadows, mingling with the sickly glow of the acid baths.

"No, get up. You… you said you would show me the truth, show me something. What is it?"

Xanatos stumbled upright, and fell, two hands clutching at his wounded torso. "Truth," he laughed bitterly, choking up more blood. "You've seen it. The Order is doomed… betrayal…"

Obi Wan scowled. Somewhere behind them, the two sabers again smashed together, a screeching bedlam of noise and spitting fire. "No. There's more. Why do they want Offworld. Xanatos, tell me. Please. I helped you escape. Keep your word."

"Kill me, please," Xanatos moaned, one hand now clutching at Obi Wan's tunic, dragging him down, in the parody of a fraternal embrace. "Don't let them take me back… can't. Won't. Do it now."

"I won't kill you! Tell me what you know."

Xanatos seized his arm, eyes rolling back in pain. "Please," he begged. "Let it die with me. Don't let them.."

There was a terrific creaking groan overhead; a girder began to slip from its place. Obi Wan twisted his face upward, striving to free himself from Du Crion's grasping hands. The battle had traveled to the roof beams; someone had severed a support structurein hope of felling his opponent; the entire warehouse shivered with palsy.

Obi Wan was shivering too. He tried to heave Xanaots to his feet, but his strength was flagging, his illness asserting its sovereignty.

Another pair of footfalls rushed across the floor. Voices shouted; the Force rose in a deafening tide, a tidal wave of power. More sabers sang in the smothering darkness; electric fear and rage lanced through the plenum, choking, overwhelming. Obi Wan gasped, dizzy with the sudden influx, dizzy with fever.

Xanatos lunged for his 'saber, but he pulled free. "No!"

"Kill me, damn you!" Xanatos begged. "Coward! Do it!"

He gazed stricken upon the gaunt face of Qui Gon's first Padawan, the madness in Xanatos' shadowed eyes, the desperation etched into the ruins of his face. They panted, each on hands and knees, facing one another.

Voices called their names, blended into the infernal din, into the roar of blood in his ears.

_Xanatos! Obi Wan! Padawan!_

The dark haired youth stumbled upright, teeth bared, swaying where he stood, blood dripping from nose and mouth, black against the deathly pallor of his skin. "Kill me," he whispered.

Obi Wan shook his head, his hand trembling, his own legs trembling beneath him.

Xanatos' face twisted in despair, and he made a sudden dive, a lunge for the edge of the acid pit. Obi Wan leapt forward, to intercept him. They hit the decks, rolled over once, twice, writhing and kicking, would-be suicide and would-be savior, and teetered on the brink, the burble of bitter liquid whispering below them, the pounding of footsteps and voices filling the empty cave, shaking the Force into wild confusion.

Xanatos struck out savagely, loosing himself, and tumbled over the edge first. Obi Wan slid inexorably after, his feet losing purchase even as he twisted, hands grasping at the smooth floor, at nothing, at the Force itself... at the pair of large, tendon knotted hands that clamped fiercely about his wrists, wrenching his shoulder sockets painfully as his full weight hung over the edge, dangling above the acid pit below.

A terrible scream; the Force blazed with agony; darkness exploded behind his eyes. Screaming aloud himself, he barely felt Qui Gon haul him roughly over the edge again, drag him backward from certain destruction, embrace him with an almost unbearable intensity. Xanatos' death echoed for a full minute in the Force, wringing helpless shouts of pain from both of them, flooding them both with a dark tide in which memory and name were burned away, dissolved into the Force, leaving naught but skeletal grief and horror behind.

In the silence afterward, their mutual shock swirled and ebbed dully across their Force bond, a susurration of disbelief washing at the shores of their understanding. Obi Wan became aware that he was _sniveling_ against Qui Gon's chest, like a star-forsaken _youngling, _ and wrenched backward, mortified. The Jedi Masters grip stopped him at arm's length however, holding him fast by either elbow.

"Master, I , I –"

Qui Gon's face had been blanched to pale ivory by Xanatos' death. There was a sickly sheen of moisture on his forehead and cheeks, trails of grief carving through grime and sticky perspiration. Their breaths still came in labored unison, the Force yoking them together, a luminous umbilicum.

"Sifo-Dyas," Obi Wan rasped out.

"Master Windu and Master Dooku went after him," the tall man sighed, closing his eyes in the wake of another harsh realization.

"I tried to stop Xanatos," ObI Wan said, letting his chin fall onto his chest. Qui Gon's sorrow was a crushing burden, a condemnation of his failure more severe than even DuCrion's last agony had been.

The master's grip hardened, painfully. He gave the Padawans' arms a not-quite-gentle jerk, a terse hint of the emotion roiling beneath his tenuous control. "Obi Wan! What _possessed_ you to go speak to him again? You _defied _ my order. You were nearly _killed."_

Shaking, he made himself meet Qui Gon's eyes. "I – the Force guided me, master. I had to do it. He…he was going to show me something, something the Shadows were doing. They wanted Offworld for some dark purpose, He said the Order is corrupt, and doomed, and there is no hope for the future, that that – I – ow!"

Qui Gon abruptly loosened his hold. "I'm sorry. " They stared at each other, and more grief swelled in the Force, a rising torrent of regret, of horrible truths, of leering gargoyles emerging stealthily from the dankest corners of intuition. "Did you _help_ him escape? You _feigned_ a kidnapping?"

Obi Wan's heart sank. Stated thus, so starkly, so simply, his malfeasance took on a new and perverse aspect. He exhaled with some difficulty. "Yes, master."

Qui Gon closed his eyes, briefly, before the barely contained explosion Then, "By my _oath,_ Padawan, you have much to learn - and I shall personally see that you learn _every_ last damned lesson of it by _heart!"_

That promise rendered Obi Wan Kenobi speechless. He knelt, still imprisoned in Qui Gon's grip, shaking with fever and a sludge of conflicting, turgid emotion, determined not to shame himself further with a display of melting, bottomless sorrow. They said nothing for a long minute, until the Force flared bright with the sudden return of Mace Windu.

The Korun Jedi crouched beside Qui Gon, laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Du Crion?" he inquired, his dark eyes liquid with unspoken sympathy.

Qui Gon bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," Mace murmured. His gaze shifted to Obi Wan. "Padawan. Are you all right?"

He nodded, not daring to speak.

"Dooku has gone after Master Dyas," the Councilor stated, heavily. "If the latter escapes, we can at least be assured he will not dare return to the Temple. We were all deceived."

"He killed Bruck Chun," Obi Wan managed to grate out. "It was him, not Xanatos."

Mace nodded gravely. "And he stole the holocron as well. He has broken his oath and fallen to madness or the Dark. I pray that it's the former. Had you not fought against him, he might have succeeded in masking his treachery by killing you and blaming this entire debacle on Du Crion."

"We should leave this place." Qui Gon stood, at last relinquishing his hold on Obi Wan's arms. "Padawan."

But he was too far gone to stand up. Mace Windu's concerned face swam before his eyes. A calloused hand was pressed against his cheek.

"Qui, is he injured? Something's not right . Come here, young one. Easy."

"Padawan. Can you hear me?"

"He's seriously ill, Qui Gon. Let's go."

Two pair of strong arms lifted him, and carried him away, into a blanketing oblivion in which acidic vapor clouds and the dizzily shafting Light met and parted, and coiled together into meaningless visions, delirious nightmares wrought of shadow and elusive luminance, as shifting as the illusions that dwelt in Ilum's ice caves.

The last thing he heard was Qui Gon's voice faintly calling his name.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage III**

* * *

**Part 15: Learner**

* * *

Qui Gon Jinn leaned wearily in the doorframe. He had nothing to say; there was little for him to do. And yet he lingered.

Bant Eerin was happily stroking and comforting, as confident and serene in her newfound role as any waterbird afloat upon its native sea. "Hush now," the Mon Cal girl murmured, the Living Force twining gently round her words, tendrils of reassurance spreading softly in its light. Qui Gon smiled a bit. "It's all right, really – I know it feels awful, but it's helping you. You need it. Try to relax."

Her patient shifted restlessly, one hand twisting in the pale coverlet. "Bant…. Bant, I _hate_ this," he groaned.

The apprentice healer raised lovely spherical eyes to meet Qui Gon's gaze. One webbed hand kept stroking. "Master Jinn… perhaps you can help?"

But he shook his head. "I'm sorry. Some things must be endured."

The Mon Cal Padawan's posture conveyed a sorrowful agreement. She blinked slowly and turned around again. "Obi, if you would relax I could help you sleep. Then you wouldn't have to feel so sick… are you listening to me, stubborn bantha-head?"

The mumbling reply was too slurred to be understood. Qui Gon shifted his weight, dissatisfied, anxious. Deserved or not – and this was certainly a deserved consequence of self-neglect – it was difficult to ignore the waves of revulsion and discomfort echoing across his bond with Obi Wan.

Ben To Li appeared at his elbow, peering into the small, darkened room. "Well?" he inquired.

Bant glanced meaningfully in his direction. "It really doesn't agree with him, master," she reported mournfully.

The senior healer sighed, and idly twisted the end of his beard. "That is unfortunate but not unexpected," he confided in Qui Gon. "However, at this late stage we have little other recourse. I can't believe you let the boy reach such an acute degree of illness, Jinn. It's shameful."

"I stand guilty as charged."

"It's not your fault," BenTo snorted. "He's lucky not to be dead. A non-Sensitive would be by now. Speaking of which, did you know they employ these bioticide drugs in conventional treatment centers on a routine basis? I was just speaking with a colleague from the Coruscanti Medcenter in the Yorbel district, and he says most people don't register any reaction at all, beyond increased lethargy. Remarkable."

"The Force can be both a blessing and a burden," Qui Gon remarked, watching his delirious apprentice squirm and resist all attempts at _soothing._

"Indeed. Imagine rampant destruction of millions of organisms being wrought _inside_ your own body, and feeling _nothing at all,"_ BenTo mused.

Qui Gon's gut twisted. "Can't you just knock him out?" he demanded, gesturing at his suffering Padawan. A lesson was one thing; needless cruelty another.

The healer's brows drew together and he nodded. "Yes, I think you're right. Bant. Bant, I think it's hopeless. Just sedate him; this will have to be done the uncivilized way."

"Yes, Master Li." The Mon Cal girl rose and departed, excusing herself as she slipped past the two elder Jedi on her way to a supply cabinet.

Qui Gon sighed softly to himself. "Obi Wan," he growled, determining to add _ill without master's permission_ to the boy's lengthy list of misdemeanors pending punishment.

* * *

"I've told the Coruscanti police that Du Crion was responsible for Chun's death," Mace sighed. "A deception necessary to preserve the Order's respect and reputation within the Republic."

Qui Gon's mouth thinned. "You play your role well."

Mace wheeled about, temper stirring. "Don't, Qui Gon," he warned.

They kept walking, the shadows of the stately trees stooping close to eavesdrop as they passed along the groomed walkway. "What of the holocron that went missing?"

"It's gone. A loss we will live to regret, I fear."

"Sifo Dyas wanted Xanatos to yield over information about Offworld's holdings and corporate alliances," Qui Gon informed him. "Perhaps he will seek to wrest that information from another source."

"Leave him to others," Mace advised. "Yan has sworn to apprehend him. The Shadows are capable of… disciplining their own."

Qui Gon exhaled slowly. "You know what I think of the Shadows."

"I know. You aren't in charge of the Order's internal structure."

"Evidently." Qui Gon's lips twitched. "Since you sit on the Council."

Mace ignored the pointed jest, eyes crinkling a little in amusement. He changed the topic. "How is your Padawan faring?"

"He'll survive to grow wiser. As we all have."

Mace chuckled. "With you as his master, that will constitute a small miracle of the Force."

Qui Gon smiled serenely. "I look forward to witnessing it."

They walked onward, side by side.

* * *

"At least four weeks," Ben To Li repeated, sternly. "Do I make myself understood, Padawan?"

Obi Wan's habitual insouciant spark was missing. "Yes, Master Li," he intoned.

"We will make sure your instructions are fulfilled to the letter," Qui Gon promised. "I give you my word." He added a severe and appraising glance at his slightly wilted apprentice.

The Padawan's shoulders slumped an additional notch downward.

"Cheer up," the healer advised, chucking him lightly beneath the chin, "You _could_ be trapped here with me for the duration of your recovery. Of course if that's what you prefer, I can always change the official prognosis…"

"That won't be necessary," Obi Wan muttered.

They bowed to BenTo in unison and set off along the corridor, Obi Wan trailing a pace behind his master, offering no bright and teasing conversation. Qui Gon kept his hands folded in opposite sleeves, striding at a measured pace, not looking back.

Halfway to the residential levels he stopped, turning about. His Padawan was visibly lagging.

"Obi Wan."

"I'm sorry, master… it's… I need to rest," he finished lamely, coming to a halt and immediately casting his gaze downward to the passageway's inlaid marble floor.

Qui Gon inhaled deeply. "Sit," he said, gesturing to a nearby bench. His apprentice sank down, gratefully, pulling the Force about him like a crecheling's blanket, a cocooning at once comfort and protection.

The tall master waited patiently. Three courses of antibiotics had annihilated the virulent infection; but the aftereffects of both ailment and cure were pronounced. Ben To had been very pointed in his recommendation. Making Obi Wan cooperate would be more challenging.

"I'm ready," the young Jedi announced, after a short interval. He stood determinedly, still looking flushed, but shoulders squared and chin held high.

Qui Gon jerked his head in the direction of their quarters and led the way, again allowing his student to trail behind a pace or two, in the traditional manner. If any who saw them stared, noting the change from their customary warmth of manner, it was of no concern to him. Let the whole Temple gossip about it if they would; public opinion was of no consequence to a Jedi.

At the door to their shared apartment, Obi Wan hesitated, looking up into his mentor's face, as though wishing to break the unwonted silence between them. Qui Gon's face was calm, neither inviting nor refusing questions. But the young Jedi looked away again quickly, unsure how to proceed.

"An apology would be an insufficient but appropriate beginning," Qui Gon informed him when they had crossed the threshold.

Obi Wan bowed to him. "Master, I… I do not regret my actions, but…"

The tall Jedi rested two hands on his belt. "Then let us not belabor the point."

They stood, silent, at an impasse.

"Is…Master Uvain coming later?" Obi Wan asked, hopefully.

"No. She is on a mission." There would be no Tahl to comfort and coddle, to cajole and console. Not for either of them. She was gone.

"Oh." The Padawan was visibly disappointed. He raised a hand and rubbed at his neck.

More silence.

"You need rest, and I need to meditate, " Qui Gon decided. "We will discuss the matter of your actions further tomorrow. Before the Council."

What little color had not been scoured from the Padawan's face by illness was now drained swiftly away by dread. "Yes, master."

Qui Gon nodded once, tersely, dismissing the boy to his own room. He watched Obi Wan disappear forlornly into his small sleeping quarters, and sighed deeply.

Whatever other instincts might try to interfere, no matter the rebellion fomenting in his heart, he _would_ _not_ fail his Padawan in this one essential respect. Discipline was at the core of a Jedi's life; there could be no revoking of its claims.

Even so, after he had finished his lengthy meditation, he indulged in one short detour to spread an extra blanket or two over the sleeping figure, rendered into an illusory innocence and vulnerability by slumber. This did not count as a lapse in his resolve, because the Padawan did not stir or give any indication of noticing the gesture, and Tahl was not here to make trenchant remark upon it.

After a few more minutes, he turned and retired to his own bed.

* * *

Yoda wrinkled his nose, ears twitching cantankerously. "Deny any of this, do you, Padawan?"

Obi Wan stood at the center of the circle, the focus of all twelve Councilors skewering him with unremitting insight. Qui Gon stood a few paces behind, observing neutrally, hands hidden deep in his cloak's sleeves. He nodded in approval at his Padawan's valiant effort to keep his mental shields flattened; the only sign of his acute discomfort at being so minutely dissected was the flush spreading up the back of his neck and ears.

"No, master, I do not," the young Jedi answered, subdued.

Mace Windu steepled his fingers. "And your reason, again?"

Obi Wan shifted infinitesimally. "With respect, master, I acted on the prompting of the Force. I would not have so done had it not guided me."

The Korun master raised his eyebrows. "Really? The Force told you to do something your master and this very Council would have and did forbid outright?'

The Padawan squirmed, but in such an assembly there was no hope of prevarication; and besides, such was as foreign to Obi Wan as the notion of _ignoring_ the Force's command. "Yes, Master Windu. It did."

A flicker of amusement passed between Yoda and Mace; a ripple of other reactions spread along the periphery of the circle. Qui Gon exhaled slowly.

Yoda snorted. "Master Jinn's student this is, no doubt."

The flicker of amusement intensified and faded. Slowly. Of course, not a single face betrayed any emotion. Qui Gon pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes a trifle. Very funny.

"Very well," Mace decided. "We can sense your sincerity in that regard. And in light of that circumstance, the Council has decided that your actions do not merit expulsion."

Obi Wan's mouth dropped open, and then clamped shut again. His alarm was a vibrant claxon of distress in the Force. More than one of Councilors raised a knowing eyebrow.

The Grand master harrumphed deep in his throat. "Think you a game in the crèche is this, Obi Wan? Disobedience a grave failing is. Forsworn you are, if your own judgment you elevate above all others', hm. What say you to that?"

Qui Gon recognized the warning glint in the old troll's eye; but his young apprentice was not so jaded, or experienced. "Master," the Padawan replied readily, "I followed the will of the Force, not my own whim!"

"So certain are you of the Force's guidance, without any direction? Perhaps Knight you we should tomorrow. Perhaps your own Padawan you should take. Eager am I to learn from such a prodigy. Your student I will be."

Appalled, Obi Wan actually took a pace backward, against all protocol. The Council stirred. Ki Adi Mundi cleared his throat.

Yoda stood upon his seat, wrinkled face crumpling into a dreadful expression of displeasure. "Well, young one?"

The beleaguered apprentice dropped to one knee, head bowed. "Master. I apologize for my arrogance. I - I did not intend self-aggrandizement. I do not wish to stray from the path – my only wish was to fulfill the Force's command, not to seek my own will."

Yoda relented, squatting back down into place, fussily rearranging his frayed robe.

Mace leaned forward, expression softening a trifle. "We believe you. But there is a lesson to be learned here. Pride is a dangerous flaw; I think you will agree."

Miserable, Obi Wan nodded. "I will accept the Council's correction," he murmured, still kneeling. Qui Gon's gut clenched, and he breathed out the fickle emotion. Pity was not needed here. The decision was the right one.

"Good," the Korun master rumbled. "Padawan Kenobi. The Council, on the recommendation of Master Jinn, has decided to assign you to the Agri-Corps for a full duty –rotation. You will spend your time there reflecting on the humility and obedience required of one holding your rank in the Order, and you will temporarily revoke the privileges accorded to you as such."

Qui Gon closed his eyes, absorbing the blow that echoed across his bond with Obi Wan. The Padawan was silent for a full minute before he finally found his voice. The Council waited, unperturbed ,while the sentence - and the humiliation it entailed- sank in and settled.

"Yes, my masters," Obi Wan managed, at last. He stood, chest rising and falling visibly beneath the crisp double line of his tunics.

Qui Gon moved forward, held out a hand.

ObI Wan glanced up at him, blue eyes betraying a world of unspoken pain, and then looked to Yoda again, if not seeking clemency, then at least wishing for a word of comfort.

But the ancient one only nodded once, stern as the light falling in rigid lines upon the cold floor. Obi Wan slowly, solemnly, unclipped his saber – the lovingly crafted work of his own hands, and relinquished it into Qui Gon's keeping, a part of his heart going with it, tearing a small whimpering wound in the Living Force. The master placed it beside his own weapon. Setting his own jaw, he gently reached out and tugged the boy's tabards free of his belt, lifting them off the Padawans' shoulders, and folding the cream cloth into a neat bundle. Obi Wan swallowed once, standing rigid as he was publicly stripped of the honoraria.

He did not flinch until Qui Gon's fingers found the braid dangling behind his right ear. But the master merely tucked the thin plait into the boy's short nerftail, hiding it from view. His hand brushed against the Padawans' shoulder when he was finished, feeling the taut stretch of muscle beneath his fingers, the terrible ache resounding across their bond.

They stood, side by side, awaiting the Council's approval.

"Dismissed, you are," Yoda chuffed, merciless. "May the Force be with you."

Not until they were ensconced in the south spire's lift did he dare speak. "It _was _ my recommendation," he answered his Padawan's unspoken question, heart twisting beneath his ribs.

"Yes, master," Obi Wan said, though no sound accompanied the words. His chest spasmed, a little.

Qui Gon wiped a trailing tear away with his thumb.

It was still the right decision.

* * *

Dooku was not subject to the whims of sentimentality.

"Du Crion was a failure on my part," he admitted, emotionlessly, crossing one leg over the other. "Though I am loathe to admit it. I had thought there might be hope of redemption for him."

"You are growing soft-hearted, my master," Qui Gon teased, though his smile was a bit forced.

Dooku shrugged. "Talent should not be wasted. The Republic has need of its fruits. In an age of corruption, skill and intelligence should be guarded more closely than ever."

Qui Gon finished his meal. "Indeed."

"Speaking of which," Dooku continued, implacable, "I was glad to hear that you have finally decided to take a strong hand with that Padwan of yours. The boy requires severe discipline. I've never met such an obstinate personality… except you, of course." He grinned, a feral flash of teeth, a rare phenomenon that had been described as _rakish_ in the man's youth.

"Hubris is a danger for all of us; I must teach as occasion arises."

Dooku sniffed. "Hubris is a matter of perspective."

His former apprentice stood. "Your friend Sifo-Dyas might have benefited from your wisdom in that regard, master."

The older Jedi rose with him. "He shall benefit from my wisdom when next we meet. A traitor in the ranks of the Sentinels is an abomination not to be tolerated. Force willing , our blades shall cross again one day."

Qui Gon shuddered in the ice wind howling through the Force, the frigid echo of Ilum's peaks. He looked upon the lonely pinnacle of Dooku's private dedication, and wondered at the fey light kindling deep in the older man's eyes.

They parted at the entrance to the dining hall. "Oh…ah, Qui Gon?"

A moment's pause. "Yes."

"A word of advice. Do not mistake attachment for _teaching._"

"I would never commit the folly of mistaking an object lesson for affection," Qui Gon assured him, a hint of bitter memory edging his words.

"Hm," Dooku replied, and strode away, his dark cloak billowing softly at his heels, the Force sliding like quicksilver over the signature echo he left in his formidable wake.

* * *

Bant's embrace was far longer than would be appropriate, but she was afforded a degree of empathetic expression in excess of convention, due to her healer's status. Still, she abused it shamelessly. And in the docking bay, no less.

"You'll be all right, Obi. I'll miss you. Don't get hurt – I want all the fun for myself."

Her friend smiled. "May the Force be with you, Bant. Don't worry about me; attachment is forbidden, you know."

She slapped his arm playfully. "Don't lecture me, you gundark. You're supposed to be practicing humility."

He frowned, and the Mon Cal blinked in apology.

"Until later, Bant." Obi Wan bowed, collecting his small satchel, and turned toward the boarding ramp with a heavy heart. Qui Gon stood at its head. "Master."

"You haven't asked for my parting advice," the tall man chided him.

Obi Wan's eyebrows contracted into a pained valley. He heaved in a deep breath. "Master," he began, "I will do honor to your teachings, and the Order. I understand… that is, I –"

Qui Gon held up a hand. "I told you that the occasion of your second offense would merit strict discipline."

"Yes, master, I remember, and I accept your decision. " The Padawan's eyes shifted sideways, to the bustling Temple hangar bay. "I did choose willingly. But… I am sorry to have caused you grief. I would not lightly defy you." He risked an upward glance, difficult emotion reflected in blue-green depths.

The Jedi master laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know, young one. I too understand what it is to choose between obedience and the will of the Force. But as Jedi we must find a path that does not exclude either."

Obi Wan looked at him, quizzically.

Qui Gon held his gaze for another long moment. "...Which is why I am coming with you. We can perhaps learn a great deal together during this upcoming time. Besides, I don't trust you to stay out of trouble on your own."

He was rewarded with a smile as dazzling as the pure snow of Ilum's peaks under the rising sun, a reflection of the Living Force's boundless joy.

"Yes, master... I would not wish for you to miss any of the trouble, either."

_Brat._ Qui Gon felt an answering smile tug at the corners of his mouth, and suppressed it with some difficulty. "Get on board," he ordered, sternly.

His Padawan obeyed with an alacrity bespeaking mischief abrew, some of the characteristic swagger already returning to his gait.

Qui Gon raised an eyebrow, and braced himself for a long and mettlesome journey. At least BenTo had slyly given him a parting gift of _peruma_ tea, a potent soporific commonly used in the Temple creche to ease sleepless nights. Some of the pressure about his heart eased, and he closed the ramp with a ray of hope breaking over the shadowed horizons ahead.

"I think we shall have tea together, Obi Wan," he decided. "See if the ship's supplies include a water boiler."

"Yes, master," came the ready reply from the passenger hold.

Qui Gon chuckled quietly to himself and joined his unsuspecting Padawan in the forward compartment.

Much darkness might lie in wait, crouched behind the mutable ramparts of the future; but now, in the present moment where their focus belonged, all was well.

END BOOK 3


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